THE    OLD   BUREAU, 


AND    OTHER    TALES. 


BY  D.  C.  COLESWOKTHY. 


Professions  are  nothing  —  behavior  and  actions  everything.  Acts  of  obedience,  lova 
and  mercy  are  wanted;  and  nothing  else  will  satisfy  the  understandings  of  men,  or  th« 
purposes  of  God.  JDHN  NEAL. 


BOSTON: 
ANTIQUE     BOOK     STORE, 

No.    66,    CORNHILL. 
1871. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  I860,  by 

D.  C.  COLESWORTHY, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


STEREOTYPED  BY  COW1ES  &  COMPANY, 
17  WASHINGTON  ST.,  BOSTON. 


il 

CONTENTS. 


Page. 

THE  OLD  BUKEAU 5 

JUDGING  FROM  APPEARANCES         ......  15 

THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD      -        .        -       -        .        -  "  26 

HONESTY  AND  DISHONESTY     .       -       -       -       -       -  39 

TEN  THOUSAND  DOLLARS 61 

RELIC  OF  A  BELOVED  PASTOR        -       -       -       -       -  79 

NOT  ASHAMED  TO  WORK 88 

THE  TAILORESS 98 

BEAUTY  AND  DEFORMITY 113 

A  TALE  OF  MOOSE  ALLEY 122 

WIDOW  AND  SON 134 

THE  OLD  KEY -        -        -        -143 

*THE  REFORMATION 150 

THE  PROMISE  FULFILLED 161 

THE  GOLD  RING 173 

THE  HUMPBACK 183 

POPULAR  AND  UNPOPULAR    •       -       -       -     '  -       -  193 

THE  IMPRUDENT  STEP         .......  205 

A  MAN  AGAIN 215 

THE  ORPHAN 225 


IV  CONTENTS. 

Page. 
WHICH  SHALL  I  MARRY 239 

STOKY  OF  ELLEN 253 

GOOD  FOR  EVIL   -  -260 

THE  OLD  BOOKS 276 

THE  WOODSAWER 283 

THE  CLAY  COVE  MECHANIC 296 

THE  LAWYER        .........  305 

THE  AGREEABLE  DECEPTION 319 

"    I 

JOB  DOBSON  - 328 

THE  REVENGE     ' 339 

AN  ADVENTURE 353 

THE  TWO  APPRENTICES 362 

DON'T  BE  DISCOURAGED 373 

THE  YOUNG  MERCHANT      - -  382 

A  COMMON  ERROR      - 391 

THE  BARKEEPER .400 


THE  OLD    BUREAU. 


CHAPTER    I. 

Where'er  a  single  human  breast 

Is  crushed  by  pain  or  grief, 
There  I  would  ever  be  a  guest, 

And  sweetly  give  relief. 

As  I  was  passing  down  Exchange  Street  several  years 
ago,  I  stopped  in  front  of  an  auction-room,  to  exam 
ine  the  various  articles  that  were  exposed  to  be  sold 
under  the  hammer.  I  had  been  there  but  a  few  mo 
ments,  when  I  heard  a  female  voice  inquiring,  "Is 
this  old  bureau  to  be  sold  to-day  ?  "  On  looking  up  I 
perceived  the  question  had  been  addressed  to  me  by  a 
young  lady  with  a  sad  but  pleasant  countenance.  I 
replied  that  all  the  articles  spread  on  the  sidewalk 
would  be  disposed  of  to  the  highest  bidder. 
.  "  I  should  like  this  bureau,  if  it  goes  low  enough,"  she 
said,  pointing  to  an  old-fashioned  article  that  was  stand 
ing  among  the  other  furniture,  "  but  I  never  bought  any 
thing  at  auction  in  my  life,  and  as  I  see  no  woman  here, 
I  don't  know  as  it  would  be  proper  for  me  to  bid." 

"  It  would  be  perfectly  proper,"  I  remarked ;  "  but  if 
you  wish  it,  I  will  bid  off  the  bureau." 

"  If  you  will,  sir,  I  shall  be  greatly  obliged  to  you." 

"  How  high  are  you  willing  I  should  go  ?  " 


6  THE  OLD   BUREAU. 

"  I  don't  know  exactly  how  much  it  is  worth,  but  if 
it  sells  for  three  or  four  dollars,  you  may  buy  it." 

"  Shall  I  speak  to  a  handcartman  to  leave  it  at  your 
house  ?  " 

"  No,  sir ;  I  will  call  at  noon  and  settle  for  it,  and 
have  it  taken  away.  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for 
your  kindness." 

So  saying,  the  young  lady  went  away,  leaving  me  to 
wonder  who  she  was,  and  of  what  use  the  old  piece  of 
furniture  could  be  to  her.  I  examined  it,  took  out 
the  drawers,  but  saw  nothing  remarkable  about  it.  At 
eleven  o'clock,  when  the  auction  commenced,  I  was 
present,  and,  after  waiting  nearly  an  hour,  the  auction 
eer  remarked,  "  We  will  now  sell  the  bureau,  what  will 
you  give,  gentlemen  ?  "  One  man  offered  two  dollars, 
another  three,  and  I  bid  a  half-dollar  more.  Four 
dollars  were  bid  —  four  and  a  half,  and  five  dollars. 
I  was  astonished  that  the  old  thing  should  bring  so 
high  a  price.  What  could  I  do?  'See  it  sold,  and 
disappoint  the  lady  ?  The  thought  struck  me  that  it 
might  have  belonged  to  some  friend,  and  she  wished  to 
purchase  it  on  that  account,  and,  rather  than  disappoint 
her,  I  resolved  to  bid  again.  Six  dollars  were  offered, 
by  another,  to  my  utter  astonishment ;  but  when  our 
hand  is  in,  and  we  wish  for  an  article,  we  seldom  let 
another  outbid  us ;  and  so  I  offered,  until  the  old  bu 
reau  was  run  up  to  ten  dollars,  and  I  purchased  it 
for  half  a  dollar  more.  Certainly,  I  would  not  have 
given  four  dollars  for  it  to  use  myself.  However,  I 
bought  it,  and  had  it  sent  to  my  room,  telling  the  auc 
tioneer,  if  a  lady  should  call  for  it  to  inform  her 
where  it  might  be  found.  I  examined  it  again  and 
again,  and  began  to  regret  my  purchase,  feeling  almost 


THE  OLD  BUREAU.  7 

certain  that  the  young  woman  would  not  thank  me  for 
what  I  had  done ;  but  I  never .  mourn  over  a  bad 
bargain ;  my  philosophy  will  not  permit  me  to  do  so. 

A  little  after  dusk,  as  I  was  sitting  in  my  sanctum, 
the  young  lady  came  in  with  an  apology  for  intruding, 
and  remarked,  "  You  bought  the  bureau,  so  the  auction 
eer  informs  me." 

"  Yes,  I  bought  it,  but  at  an  extravagant  price,  I  as 
sure  you." 

"  What  did  you  give  ?  " 

"  Ten  dollars  and  a  half." 

"  You  astonish  me.  What  can  I  do  ?  I  had  no  idea 
that  it  would  bring  over  three  or  four  dollars,  and  am 
not  prepared  to  pay  for  it  to-night." 

"  I  suppose  it  was  foolish  in  me  to  give  so  much  for  it, 
but  I  presumed  you  wanted  it  very  much." 

"  I  did,  sir,  and  would  not  value  paying  double  the 
amount  for  the  bureau,  if  I  were  able,  rather  than  not 
to  have  it." 

"  So  I  apprehended.  Perhaps  it  may  have  belonged 
to  some  friend  of  yours  ? " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  that  bureau  was  once  my  mother's  "  —  and 
I  noticed  a  tear  come  in  her  eye  which  she  endeavored  to 
.  conceal  —  "  but  she  is  dead  now,  and  I  wished  to  keep  it 
in  remembrance  of  her." 

Thinking  the  lady  might  be  poor,  I  told  her  she 
might  take  the  bureau  that  night  if  she  wished,  arid 
pay  me  for  it  when  she  found  it  convenient. 

"  I  am  greatly  obliged  to  you  for  your  kindness ;  but 
would  rather  that  you  should  keep  it  until  it  is  paid  for." 

I  urged  her  to  take  it,  but  she  refused,  saying — "I 
will  see  what  I  can  do,  and  call  upon  you  in  a  day  or 
two,"  and  bidding  us  good-evening,  she  left  us. 


8  THE  OLD  BUREAU. 

There  is  something  very  mysterious  about  this  wo 
man,  thought  I.  It  may  be  that  she  is  poor,  and  in 
very  destitute  circumstances.  But  she  shows  an  excel 
lent  heart,  and  the  warmest  attachment  to  a  deceased 
mother.  Her  education  must  have  been  good,  and  she 
has  evidently  seen  better  days.  And  I  thought  the 
next  time  she  should  call  upon  me,  I  would  ascertain 
something  more  of  her  character  and  circumstances  — 
perhaps  her  name  —  which  I  felt  deeply  anxious  to 
learn. 

In  a  day  or  two  the  young  woman  called  upon  me  again, 
and  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  remarked,  "  I  don't  know 
what  you  will  think  of  me,  but  all  the  money  I  have  in 
the  world  is  five  dollars ;  this  I  have  brought  you  tow 
ards  the  bureau  you  were  so  kind  as  to  purchase  for 
me."  So  saying,  she  placed  the  money  before  me  in 
silver. 

"  I  shall  not  take  the  money  at  present,"  I  remarked, 
"  I  can  do  without  it,  you  may  take  the  bureau,  if  you 
want  it,  and  when  you  are  able,  at  some  future  time, 
you  may  pay  me." 

She  expressed  a  great  deal  of  gratitude,  and  said,  "  I 
should  rather  you  would  take  what  I  have."  And  noth 
ing  I  could  say  would  induce  her  to  receive  the  money 
again. 

"You  appear  to  have  seen  some  affliction?"  I  re 
marked,  as  I  saw  the  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Not  much,  sir ;  I  must  confess  that  I  have  not  al 
ways  been  as  poor  as  I  am  at  present ;  for  I  have  seen 
better  days.  When  my  parents  were  living,  I  never 
knew  what  it  was  to  want  for  any  thing ;  now  I  can 
not  say  so." 

"  How  long  have  your  parents  been  dead  ? " 


THE  OLD  BUREAU. '  9 

"  About  six  years  since,  my  father  died ;  and  it  was 
four  years  ago  last  Saturday  when  my  mother  was 
buried." 

At  the  mention  of  her  mother's  name,  the  tears  came 
fast  to  her  eyes  — a  tender  chord  was  touched  ^  I  saw 
it,  and  made  no  more  inquiries,  and  she  took  her  leave. 

It  was  nearly  six  weeks  before  I  saw  the  young  lady 
again.  She  then  called  upon  me  with  the  remainder  of 
the  money  that  I  had  paid  for  the  bureau. 

I  protested  against  receiving  it  at  that  time,  think 
ing  it  might  have  been  inconvenient  for  her  to  pay  it  ;- 
but  she  insisted  that  I  should  have  it,  saying,  "  I  am 
under  great  obligations  to  you  for  your  kindness.  Had 
it  not  been  for  you,  I  should  have  lost  the  bureau,  the 
only  relic  of  my  mother ;  for  it  was  then  impossible  for 
me  to  raise  the  amount  you  so  generously  paid.  I  shall 
never  forget  your  kindness." 

"  Do  you  wish  to  take  the  bureau  away  ?  " 

"  I  have  spoken  to  a  cartman,  who  will  call  here  in  a 
short  time,  and  have  it  removed  out  of  your  way ;  for  I 
suppose  you  will  be  glad  to  get  rid  of  it." 

"Not  at  all.  I  am  pleased  that  I  was  instrumental 
in  doing  you  a  little  service,  and  if  ever  you  need  assist 
ance,  I  shall  always  be  as  ready  to  render  it." 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,  with  all  my  heart." 

At  this  moment,  the  man-  came  for  the  bureau,  and, 
bidding  me  good-evening,  the  young  lady  left  my  room. 


10  THE   OLD   BUREAU. 


CHAPTER    II. 

I  ask  a  lowly  cot, 

With  sweet  content  within, 
Where  Envy  shall  molest  me  not, 

Nor  Pride  shall  tempt  to  sin.  , 

"  GOING,  going — will  you  give  but  two  dollars  for  this 
excellent  bureau?"  —  exclaimed  Mr.  Bailey,  the  auc 
tioneer,  a  year  or  two  since,  as  I  was  passing  down  Ex 
change  Street.  "  Here,  Mr.  C."  he  said,  turning  to  me, 
"  buy  this  bureau ;  it  is  cheap  enough ;  it  is  worth  more 
for  kindling-wood  than  it  is  going  for — just  look  at  it 
—  going,  going  —  say  quick,  or  you  lose  it."  • 

Two  dollars  and  fifty  cents,  I  bid,  as  I  saw  that  it 
was  the  very  same  bureau  that  I  had  bought  several 
years  before  for  ten  and  a  half  dollars,  and  the  bureau 
was  knocked  off  to  me. 

This  is  singular  enough,  thought  I,  as  I  had  the  ar 
ticle  carried  to  my  room.  Where  is  the  young  woman 
who  formerly  owned  it  ?  Who  was  she  ? 

I  made  several  inquiries,  but  could  not  ascertain 
who  she  was  or  what  had  become  of  her.  The  bureau 
had  been  carried  to  the  auction-room  by  an  individual 
whom  ^Mr.  Bailey  never  saw  before,  and  all  my  inqui 
ries  to  ascertain  what  became  of  the  young  lady  seemed 
fruitless. 

Several  months  passed  by,  and  still  I  heard  nothing 
of  the  young  lady,  when  one  day,  not  knowing  but  I 
might  get  some  clue  to  the  former  owner,  I  took  out 
all  the  drawers  separately,  and  examined  them.  I 
saw  no  writing  whatever.  In  the  back  of  the  under 
drawer,  I  noticed  that  a  small  piece  of  pine  had  been 


THE  OLD  BUREAU.  11 

l' 

inserted.  It  looked  as  if  it  had  been  done  to  stop  a 
defect.  Prying  it  with  a  knife,  it  came  out,  when  to 
niy  astonishment  I  found  several  gold  pieces,  to  the 
value  of  about  fifty  dollars,  besides  a  note  for  twenty- 
five  hundred  dollars,  with  interest,  value  received,  made 

payable  to  Sarah when  she  should  become  of  age  ; 

it  was  a.  witnessed  note,  and  had  been  running  about 
a  dozen  years,  signed  by  a  very  wealthy  man,  whose 
reputation  for  honesty  was  not  exceedingly  good.  With 
out  mentioning  to  a  single  individual  what  I  had  dis 
covered,  I  immediately  renewed  my  efforts  to  ascer 
tain  who  Sarah was,  and  where  she  could  be  found. 

I  learned  that  a  girl  of  this  name  formerly  lived  with 

a  Capt.  P ,  and  did  the  work  of  the  kitchen.     Of 

him  I  could  obtain  but  little  information.  His  wife 
recollected  the  girl,  and  spoke  of  her  in  the  highest 
terms.  She  believed  she  had  married  a  mechanic,  and 
retired  from  the  city,  but  his  name  she  could  not  re 
member.  By  repeated  inquiries,  I  ascertained  that 
Sarah,  with  her  husband,  lived  on  a  small  farm  oh  the 
road  that  leads  from  Portland  to  Saco.  Taking  an 
early  opportunity,  I  started  for  the  residence  of  the 
young  woman.  .After  several  inquiries  upon  the  road, 
I  was  directed  'to  the  house.  It  was  a  pleasant  situa 
tion,  a  little  in  from  the  road,  and  every  thing  looked 
neat  about  the  dwelling.  As  I  drove  up  to  the  cot 
tage  who  should  come  to  the  door  but  the  very  woman 
I  had  been  so  long  anxious  to  find.  She  recognized  me 
at  once. 

"  Why  Mr.  C ,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you !    Where 

in  the  world  did  you  come  from  ?  Walk  in  and  take 
a  seat." 


12  THE  OLD  BUREAU. 

Her  husband  was  present  —  an  intelligent  looking 
man  —  to  whom  she  presented  me. 

"  I  have  often  thought  of  you,"  she  remarked,  "  and 
when  in  Portland  have  been  tempted  to  call  and  see 
you ;  but  although  I  have  not  called,  be  assured  I  have 
not  forgotten  your  kindness,  and  I  never  shall  forget  it." 

"  But  you  seem  happier  than  when  I  last  saw  you." 

"  Be  assured,  sir,  I  am.  My  husband  has  hired  this 
little  farm,  where  we  have  resided  for  the  last  two  years, 
and  we  make  a  comfortable  living,  and  are  as  happy  as 
we  could  wish.  In  the  course  of  a  few  years,  if  we 
have  our  health  and  prosper,  we  are  in  hopes  to  pur 
chase  the  farm." 

"  What  does  the  owner  value  it  at  ?  " 

"  He  values  it  at  about  fifteen  hundred  dollars.  We 
have  had  to  purchase  a  great  many  farming  things,  or 
we  should  have  made  a  payment  towards  it." 

"  But  what  has  become  of  your  bureau  ?  " 

"  I  fear  I  shall  never  see  it  again,"  she  replied,  and 
after' a  pause  said  —  "I  believe  I  have  never  told  you 
how  I  have  been  situated  ? " 

"  You  never  did." 

"  When  my  mother  died,  it  was  thought  she  left 
some  property  in  the  hands  of  an  uncle  of  mine,  that 
would  come  to  me  when  I  became  of  age ;  but  he  said 
it  was  not  the  case.  With  him  I  resided  a  short  time." 

"Was  your  uncle's  name  ,"  said  I,  mention 
ing  the  individual  who  had  signed  the  note  in  my  pos 
session. 

"Yes,  sir  —  that  was  his  name.  He  was  very  un 
kind  to  me  —  made  me  work  so  hard,  and  was  so  cross, 
that  I  was  obliged  to  leave  him,  and  earn  my  living  by 


THE   OLD  BUKEAU.  13 

doing  the  work  of  a  kitchen  girl.  One  day  I  learned 
that  he  was  about  to  dispose  of  what  little  property  my 
mother  had  left,  to  pay  an  old  debt  of  hers.  As  soon 
as  I  found  it  was  correct,  I  immediately  went  to  the 
auction-room,  and  found  it  too  true.  You  know  about 
the  bureau,  the  only  article  of  my  mother's  property  I 
could  purchase  —  and  had  it  not  been  for  your  kind 
ness,  it  would  have  gone  with  the  rest.  The  money  I 
paid  you  was  earned  in  the  kitchen.  As  I  found  it  in 
convenient  to  carry  the  bureau  with  me,  I  asked  my 
aunt's  permission  to  put  it  in  her  garret,  which  per 
mission  she  granted.  On  calling  for  it  when  I  was 
married,  I  learned  that  my  uncle  had  disposed  of  it 
with  some  other  things  at  auction.  I  would  rather 
have  lost  a  hundred  dollars ;  not  that  the  piece  of  furni 
ture  possessed  any  real  value,  but  it  belonged  to  my 
beloved  mother"  (a  tear  came  in  the  poor  woman's 
eye),  "  and  on  that  account  I  did  not  wish  to  part  with 
it.  But  it  was  gone,  and  it  was  useless  to  speak  to  my 
uncle  about  it ;  he  was  entirely  indifferent  about  me 
and  whatever  concerned  me." 

"  Suppose  I  shall  tell  you  that  I  have  now  that  bu 
reau  in  my  office." 

"  Is  it  possible !  You  astonish  me,  Mr.  C . 

Have  you,  indeed,  the  old  bureau  ?  " 

"I  have,  and  what  is  better,  I  have  something  for 
you  here" — taking  out  my  pocket-book,  and  placing 
the  gold  and  note  on  the  table  —  "  these  ard  yours." 

"  Why,  sir,  you  more  and  more  astonish  me." 

"  They  are  yours.     After  I  became  the  owner  of  the 

bureau,  I  found  this  gold  and  this  note  concealed  in  one 

of  the  drawers.     There  are  nearly  fifty  dollars,  and  the 

note  is  good  against  your  uncle,  for  nearly  three  thou- 

2  -   *-' 


14  THE   OLD   BUEEAU. 

sand  dollars  —  every  cent  of  which  you  can  recover,  as 
he  is  abundantly  able  to  pay." 

The  astonished  young  lady  could  not  speak  for  some 
moments ;  but  when  she  recovered  from  her  surprise, 
she  only  expressed  her  gratitude  in  tears ;  nay,  more, 
she  urged  me  to  take  half  the  amount ;  but  I  utterly 
refused,  telling  her  that  it  pleased  me  more  to  have  jus 
tice  done  to  her,  and  be  instrumental  in  adding  to  the 
happiness  of  those  I  considered  so  worthy  as  herself  and 
husband,  than  to  be  the  possessor  of  millions. 

When  I  left,  I  promised  to  call  on  her  soon  again, 
and,  in  the  mean  time,  to  make  arrangements  for  her 
to  receive  her  just  dues  from  her  unworthy  uncle. 

When  I  called  upon  Mr. ,  the  uncle  of  Sarah, 

and  made  known  to  him  the  object  of  my  interview, 
he  was  disposed  to  treat  the  matter  with  indifference  ; 
but  when  I  told  him  of  the  consequences  of  his  refu 
sal  to  do  justice  to  a  poor  relative,  when  his  course  and 
conduct  should  be  made  known,  he  at  once  acceded  to 
my  proposals  and  immediately  made  arrangements  for 
the  payment  of  the  note  and  interest  —  begging  me  not 
to  expose  him  to  the  world  —  which  I  have  never  done 
— believing  as  I  sincerely  do,  that  he  has  heartily  re 
pented  of  his  course,  and  is  now  a  better  and  a  wiser 
man! 

Sarah's  husband  purchased  the  farm  on  which  he 
resided,  stocked  it  well,  and  is  now  an  independent 
farmer.  It  is  difficult  to  find  two  happier  souls  than 
Sarah  and  her  companion.  May  prosperity  attend  them 
to  the  close  of  life. 

I  often  call  at  the  farmhouse  of  my  friends,  and  spend 
there  many  a  happy  hour.  It  was  but  a  week  or  two 
since  that  I  saw  them,  and  they  were  cheerful,  and 
seemed  perfectly  contented  and  happy. 


JUDGING  FROM  APPEARANCES. 


It  is  not  those  who  make  a  boast 

Of  generous  deeds  which  they  perform, 
Who  for  the  needy  do  the  most, 

And  find  them  shelter  in  the  storm. 
In  humble  life  meek  virtues  spring,  — 

To  glad  the  heart,  to  bless  and  cheer,  — 
That  never  fly  on  eagle's  wing, 

Or  on  the  printed  page  appear. 

"  THERE  goes  old  Jacobs,  the  mean  man  !  "  exclaimed 
a  young  person  to  his  companion,  as  he  was  standing  in 
the  door  of  a  shop. 

"  Who  is  old  Jacobs  ? "  inquired  his  friend. 

"Have  you  lived  in  town  six  months,  and  never 
heard  of  the  fellow  before  ?  He  is  one  of  the  meanest 
fellows  in  the  place.  He  saves  every  cent  he  gets,  and 
hoards  it  up,  but  for  what  purpose  no  one  can  tell,  as 
he  has  but  two  children  and  they  are  well  enough  off. 
And  his  dress  shows  what  the  man  is.  He  buys  the 
meanest  cloth,  and  looks  like  a  lumper." 

"  What's  the  fellow  worth  ?  " 

"  That's  more  than  I  can  tell.  Some  rate  him  at  a 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars,  some  less.  But 
there's  no  telling  what  the  man  is  worth.  But  his 
meanness  makes  him  notorious,  no  one  respects  him. 
Why,  he  was  neve'r  known  to  give  a  cent  to  any  charit- 


16  JUDGING  FROM  APPEARANCES. 

able  institution,  and  the  poor  might  starve,  for  aught 
he  would  care." 

Mr.  Jacobs  was  a  man  of  some  seventy  years  of  age. 
He  commenced  life  a  poor  boy,  but  had  contrived  to  rake 
together  quite  a  fortune.  By  those  who  had  been  less 
successful  in  business,  he  was  accused  of  all  sorts  of 
trickery  and  deception.  It  was  said  that  but  little  of  his 
property  was  accumulated  by  strict  honesty.  At  the 
time  of  which  we  speak,  his  wife  had  been  dead  several 
years,  and  both  of  his  children  were  settled  in  life. 
Mr.  Jacobs  attracted  some  attention  —  being  somewhat 
singular  in  his  own  dress  and  appearance.  There  was 
nothing  like  pride  about  him ;  he  purchased  for  his  own 
use  that  kind  of  clothing  which  he  thought  would  wear 
the  longest,  without  regard  to  the  prevailing  fashions 
of  the  day.  Whenever  a  subscription  was  raised  for  a 
benevolent  object,  Mr.  Jacobs  was  the  last  person  called 
upon.  It  was  currently  reported  that  he  never  gave  a 
cent  for  any  benevolent  object  whatever. 

During  one  severe  winter,  a  fire  broke  out  in  town, 
and  consumed  the  dwellings  of  many  of  the  poorer 
class.  The  charitable  portion  of  the  community  raised 
a  subscription  for  their  relief,  and  many  dollars  were 
contributed  by  the  wealthy,  and  by  men  in  moderate 
circumstances.  At  this  time,  a  gentleman  called  upon 
Mr.  Jacobs,  and  requested  a  few  dollars  from  him. 
After  hearing  what  the  man  had  to  say,  he  remarked, 

"  I  cannot  put  my  name  down,  you  know  I  never  do." 

"  Isn't  it  your  duty  to  give  something  to  aid  the  suf 
fering,  Mr.  Jacobs  ?  "  said  the  gentleman. 

"  Perhaps  it  may  be ;  but  suppose  I  don't  choose  to 
give  any  thing  ?  " 

"  Put  down  a  couple  of  dollars,  you  will  be  none  the 
poorer  for  it." 


JUDGING  FEOM  APPEAEANCES.  17 

"  No,  sir ;  I  will  not  put  my  name  down  for  a  single 
cent." 

The  gentleman  left  him,  remarking  to  himself,  "  Old 
Jacobs  is  the  meanest  man  I  ever  came  across.  He  is 
not  worthy  to  live  in  civilized  society." 

And  he  didn't  fail  to  express  his  opinion  wherever  he 
went.  Stepping  into  the  store  of  a  merchant,  he  re 
ceived  a  dollar  from  him,  and  then  he  related  his  inter 
view  with  Mr.  Jacobs. 

"He  is  a  wretched  mean  man,  I  know,"  said  the 
merchant,  "  you  can't  tell  me  any  thing  about  him.  I 
never  knew  him  to  give  away  a  cent  in  my  life ;  and  I 
have  known  him  full  five  and  thirty  years.  The  chil 
dren  may  beg  at  his  door  —  the  poor  widow  may  en 
treat,  and  the  suffering  may  beseech  him,  but  in  vain. 
They  get  nothing  for  their  pains.  I'm  glad  there  are 
some  men  with  souls  in  our  community.  But  for  them 
there  would  be  a  world  of  suffering." 

"  Did  I  show  you  the  letter  that  I  received  this  morn 
ing —  the  letter  that  contained  the  money?  " 

"  No.     What  money  ?  " 

"  I  received  a  letter  through  the  post-office  that  con 
tained  one  hundred  dollars  for  the  relief  of  the  suffer 
ers." 

"  Indeed !  from  whom  did  it  come  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  imagine ;  the  only  signature  was  S . 

He  is  a  benevolent  man,  whoever  he  may  be." 

"  What  a  contrast  to  old  Jacobs !  " 

"  The  writer  of  the  letter  has  a  whole  soul,  but  as 
for  Jacobs',  it  would  dance  on  the  point  of  a  needle." 

"  True,  he  is  a  mean  wretch." 

The   gentleman,  after  going  the  rounds  of  his  dis 
trict  to  obtain  funds  for  the  sufferers,  found  that  he  had 
2* 


18  JUDGING  FEOM   APPEARANCES. 

collected  several  hundred  dollars,  which  were  equally 
distributed  among  the  unfortunate. 

A  poor  widow  was  called  upon,  and  several  dollars 
given  to  her.  She  expressed  her  gratitude  in  tears,  say 
ing— 

"  I  have  not  a  stick  of  wood  to  burn,  and  scarcely 
any  thing  to  eat  in  the  house,  and  but  for  your  kind 
ness,  I  should  have  suffered.  I  always  find  that  the 
Lord  raises  up  friends  and  will  not  let  me  suffer. 
About  three  years  ago,  I  lived  in  one  of  old  Jacobs' 
houses,  and  you  know  how  particular  he  is  to  have  the 
rent  paid  on  the  day  it  is  due.  My  quarter's  rent  was 
due  ;  the  money  was  ready,  but  I  had  nothing  to  eat  in 
the  house.  I  was  out  of  meat  and  potatoes,  and  had 
but  a  dozen  sticks  of  wood.  Mr.  Jacobs  called  for  his 
rent.  I  told  him  my  situation,  and  asked  him  to  take 
one-half,  and  loan  me  the  balance  for  a  few  days.  He 
refused,  saying  he  must  have  all  that  was  due  to  him. 
I  gave  him  every  cent  I  had ;  but  the  unfeeling  man 
only  gave  me  a  receipt,  and  left  me.  I  never  felt  worse 
in  my  life ;  I  had  scarcely  any  thing  to  eat  in  the  house, 
and  nothing  to  buy  bread  with.  But  the  Lord  was 
good  to  me  then,  as  he  has  been  ever  since.  Just  before 
nine  o'clock,  somebody  knocked  at  the  door.  It  was  a 
cartman.  He  said  he  was  directed  to  leave  the  articles 
in  his  cart  at  my  house.  I  thought  it  was  a  mistake. 
But  he  had  particular  directions,  he  said,  and  would 
not  carry  them  away.  I  asked  him  who  sent  him,  but 
he  said  he  did  not  know  nor  care,  since  he  had  got  the 
job,  and  was  paid  for  it.  There  was  a  half-barrel  of 
flour,  a  leg  of  bacon,  a  bushel  of  potatoes,  some  sugar 
and  tea ;  and  I  assure  you,  sir,  no  person  was  ever  more 
grateful.  Who  the  benevolent  man  was  that  remem- 


JUDGING  PEOM   APPEARANCES.  19 

bored  me,  I  never  knew,  and  probably  never  shall. 
The  present  you  have  given  me  reminds  me  of  the  past. 
A  thousand  thanks  for  your  kindness  ;  Heaven  will  re 
ward  you." 

From  every  source  the  character  of  the  old  miser  Ja 
cobs  received  a  severe  handling.  Rich  men  and  poor, 
the  widow  and  the  orphan,  were  of  opinion  alike  in 
this  respect.  He  had  but  few  friends,  and  seldom  as 
sociated  with  his  neighbors.  There  were  a  few  individ 
uals  who  were  as  mean  as  Jacobs  —  but  they  were  not 
as  wealthy  —  with  whom  he  appeared  to  be  on  intimate 
terms.  From  the  earliest  recollections  of  those  who 
had  lived  by  his  side  a  half-century,  he  was  always  con 
sidered  close  and  penurious.  Whenever  he  was  owing 
an  individual,  however,  it  was  always  noticed  that  he 
paid  promptly ;  but  this  was  no  virtue.  He  had  the 
means  of  settling  every  demand.  His  town  tax  and 
his  pew  tax  were  paid  on  presentation  of  the  bill,  but 
when  there  was  a  contribution  in  the  society  to  which 
he  belonged,  the  deacons  always  noticed  that  he  never 
put  into  the  box  more  than  a  half-dime,'  and  this 
amount  he  never  failed  to  give,  whatever  might  be  the 
object  of  the  contribution. 

In  the  neighborhood  where  Mr.  Jacobs  resided,  there 
lived  a  young  man  by  the  name  of  Edward  Mason. 
His  parents  were  poor ;  but,  when  quite  a  lad,  he  de 
voted  much  of  his  time  to  reading  and  study.  The  old 
miser  appeared  to  feel  some  interest  in  young  Edward, 
and  repeatedly  remarked  that  he  would  make  a  smart 
man.  Although  the  young  man  was  in  humble  cir 
cumstances,  Mr.  Jacobs  never  offered  to  give  him  a  dol 
lar,  or  otherwise  assist  him. 

One  morning  as  Mason  was  passing  along  the  street, 


20  JUDGING  FEOM  APPEARANCES. 

a  gentleman  with  whom  he  was  slightly  acquainted, 
stopped  him  and  inquired  if  he  would  not  like  to  enter 
college. 

"  I  should,"  said  the  boy,  "  but  my  parents  are  not 
able  to  give  me  an  education." 

"  I  think,  as  you  take  to  learning,  that  a  classical  ed 
ucation  will  be  of  great  advantage  to  you.  For  some 
days  I  have  thought  on  the  subject,  and  now  I'll  tell 
you  what  I  propose  to  do.  If  you  will  continue  dili 
gent  in  your  studies,  I  will  procure  the  necessary  funds 
and  have  you  enter  college." 

Edward  thanked  his  friend,  at  the  same  time  remark 
ing:— 

"  I  did  hope  Mr.  Jacobs  would  render  me  some  little 
assistance ;  but  now  I  have  no  Jiopes  of  him.  He  is  al 
most  too  mean  to  live,  as  every  one  knows." 

Young  Mason  continued  his  studies,  and  when  pre 
pared,  he  entered  college  —  his  friend  furnishing  the 
necessary  means.  His  vacations  were  spent  at  home 
with  his  parents,  and  occasionally  he  called  upon  his 
old  friend'  Jacobs,  whom  he  found  to  be  as  sociable  as 
ever  to  him.  But  gradually  he  became  weaned  from 
the  miser,  and  took  occasion  to  speak  disrespectfully  of 
him.  During  one  of  the  vacations,  he  called  upon  the 
old  gentleman,  and  contrived  to  pin  a  piece  of  paper  to 
his  back,  on  which  was  written,  "  I  am  a  miser ! "  As 
Mr.  Jacobs  passed  along  the  streets  he  heard  much 
laughter,  but  did  not  suspect  the  cause  till  he  called 
into  a  merchant's  counting-room,  who,  seeing  the  paper, 
pointed  it  out  to  him. 

"  This  is  some  of  Mason's  doings,"  said  the  old  gen 
tleman.  "  He  should  have  more  respect  for  me,  and 
feel  that  I  am  too  far  advanced  in  life  to  be  trifled  with." 


-       JUDGING  FROM  APPEARANCES.  .  21 

Ever  after  this  circumstance,  Edward  was  shy  of  the 
old  gentleman,  but  he  was  free  to  condemn  his  nig 
gardly  course  and  miserly  disposition.  When  he  was 
with  his  associates,  and  Mr.  Jacobs  happened  to  pass 
along,  he  would  fling  out  some  improper  remark,  that 
caused  a  laugh  at  the  old  man's  expense.  Finally,  Ma 
son  graduated,  studied  law,  and  commenced  practice  in 
his  native  town.  He  had  brass  enough  to  be  a  good 
lawyer,  and  impudence  sufficient  to  succeed.  Edward 
had  not  been  in  practice  but  a  year  or  two,  before  he 
was  engaged  in  a  case  in  which  Mr.  Jacobs  was  an  in 
terested  party.  Mason  was  opposed  to  him.  In  his 
plea  he  was  very  severe  upon  the  old  gentleman.  He 
touched  upon  his  mean  and  niggardly  behavior,  which 
had  become  notorious  for  a  long  series  of  years,  and  ac 
cused  him  of  being  any  tiling  but  an  upright  man. 
He  had  never  been  known  to  be  generous  in  a  single 
instance ;  just  like  a  sponge,  he  was  constantly  drawing 
in,  but  letting  nothing  out. 

"Everybody,"  he  continued,  "in  this  vicinity,  has 
heard  of  his  disposition ;  even  the  children  shun  him. 
If  I  should  repeat  one-half  the  follies  and  meannesses 
that  are  laid  to  his  door,  most  of  which  are  true,  I  have 
no  doubt  you,  gentleman  ,of  the  jury,  would  be  aston 
ished  beyond  measure.  But  I  will  not  rake  up  the 
past.  In  the  present  case  you  have  heard  the  evidence 
on  both  sides,  and,  if  you  have  an  iota  of  common 
sense,  you  cannot  hesitate  in  whose  favor  to  decide." 

Notwithstanding  the  plea  of  Esquire  Mason,  the  jury 
decided  in  favor  of  Mr.  Jacobs. 

Having  the  name  of  being  a  hard  character,  no  one 
seemed  to  put  any  confidence  in  him,  and  his  enemies 
often  resorted  to  the  entanglements  of  the  law,  depend- 


22  JUDGING  FROM  APPEARANCES.       • 

ing  mostly  upon  his  unpopularity  for  their  success ;  but 
they  were  often  defeated. 

The  name  of  Jacobs  became  so  notorious  on  account 
of  his  reputation  for  meanness,  that  no  one  pretended 
to  call  upon  him  for  charitable  purposes.  He  was 
known  as  the  rich  miser,  and  likened  unto  Dives  of  old. 

He  had  lived  to  the  common  age  of  man  arid  longer, 
and  the  period  drew  nigh  when  he  must  give  up  the 
ghost.  The  old  gentleman  was  taken  sick,  but  he  was 
calm  and  collected.  His  minister  called  upon  him  of 
ten,  and  from  the  tenor  of  his  conversation,  appeared 
to  feel  a  deep  interest  in  him. 

"  I  have  not  long  to  live,"  said  Mr.  Jacobs  to  his  pas 
tor,  "  and  I  know  not  but  I  am  willing  to  go.  I  have 
spent  many  years,  and  I  hope  I  have  not  spent  them  in 
vain.  I  trust  I  have  done  some  little  good,  and  I  hope 
I  may  do  some  more." 

The  minister  was  struck  with  astonishment  at  his 
language.  "  He  must  be  wandering,"  said  he  to  him 
self.  "  Everybody  knows  that  he  has  been  oppressive 
to  the  poor,  and  saved  every  mill  that  came  into  his 
hands." 

"  This  is  a  wearisome  life,"  continued  the  sick  man, 
"  and  we  are  not  rightly  judged.  Our  motives  few  can 
understand.  They  are  deceived  in  us." 

"  True,"  replied  the  pastor,  "  man  cannot  look  into 
the  heart  of  his  neighbor." 

"  Thus  far  I  have  endeavored  to  live  a  useful  life, 
and  I  hope  to  be  at  rest  in  heaven ;  not  on  account 
of  my  own  righteousness,  but  I  trust  in  the  mercy  of 
God." 

Just  as  the  pastor  was  about  to  reply,  Mr.  Jacobs 
said.  — 


JUDGING  FROM  APPEARANCES.  23 

"  As  I  do  not  expect  to  continue  long  in  the  world,  I 
wish  to  entrust  to  your  care  several  papers,  which  you 
will  find  in  a  small  trunk  in  my  desk.  The  keys  are 
lying  on  the  window." 

The  minister  assured  him  he  would  do  as  requested, 
and  took  the  trunk  from  the  desk. 

In  a  day  or  two  after,  the  old  gentleman  died  and 
was  buried.  It  was  singular  to  hear  the  remarks  that 
were  made  after  his  decease.  "  He  was  no  benefit  to 
any  one  while  he  lived,"  one  remarked,  "  and  I  am  not 
sorry  he  is  dead."  "  He  was  an  old  reprobate,"  said 
another,  "  and  the  Devil  has  got  him  at  last."  "  His 
whole  life  was  worse  than  a  blank,"  remarked  a  third, 
"  and  no  one  regrets  that  the  old  fellow  is  dead." 

Mr.  Jacobs  had  been  dead  but  a  few  days  when  the 
minister  of  the  parish  called  some  of  his  friends  together 
to  examine  the  contents  of  the  trunk,  for  there,  they 
were  led  to  suppose,  his  will  was  deposited,  and  other 
important  documents. 

Judge  of  the  surprise  of  the  gentlemen  when,  on 
opening  the  papers,  they  found  that,  for  the  last  fifteen 
years  of  his  life,  Mr.  Jacobs  had  distributed  annually 
from  fifteen  hundred  to  two  thousand  dollars  among 
the  poor  of  his  native  place !  There  were  the  docu 
ments  and  receipts  to  show  this  fact.  He  had  gone 
through  the  city  unknown  and  in  disguise,  and  distrib 
uted  his  money  where  he  found  want  and  poverty.  It 
was  he  who  sent  the  money  in  a  letter  to  the  gentleman 
who  solicited  charity  of  him,  with  such  apparent  ill- 
success,  when  so  many  became  homeless  on  account  of 
a  disastrous  fire.  It  was  he  who  sent  the  poor  widow 
the  flour,  tea,  etc.,  after  she  had  paid  her  rent.  It 


24  JUDGING  FROM  APPEARANCES. 

was  he  who  had  repeatedly  sent  to  benevolent  societies 
hundreds  of  dollars  through  the  post-office  ;  and  it  was 
he,  too,  who  furnished  the  means  of  educating  Edward 
Mason,  the  lawyer,  who  treated  him  so  unhandsomely. 
He  spent  many  hundred  dollars  for  his  benefit.  After 
leaving  a  few  thousand  dollars  apiece  to  his  sons,  in  his 
will,  the  remainder  of  his  property,  amounting  to  about 
one  hundred  thousand  dollars,  was  to  be  kept  as  a  per 
manent  fund,  the  interest  of  which  was  to  be  distrib 
uted  yearly  among  the  poor  of  his  native  city. 

When  these  facts  were  announced,  the  current  of 
public  opinion  changed.  He  whom  they  looked  upon  as 
a  mean  wretch,  now  appeared  little  less  than  an  angel, 
and  no  language  was  too  exalted  to  speak  of  the  public 
benefactor. 

On  a  further  examination  of  his  papers,  they  found 
hundreds  of  little  slips  of  various  dates  for  more  than 
two  score  years  back,  for  cash  received  of  A,  B,  C,  etc., 
for  various  sums  of  from  five  to .  a  hundred  dollars 
each.  Thus  had  this  gentleman  gone  about,  and  in  se 
cret  distributed  his  money,  helping  the  sad  and  de 
sponding  —  while  hundreds  were  denouncing  him  — 
pointing  the  finger  of  scorn  and  calling  him  every  bad 
name  they  could  think  of.  He  suffered  the  reproach  and 
contumely  of  his  fellow-citizens  without  a  murmuring 
word,  and  from  those,  too,  who  had  received  countless 
favors  from  his  hand. 

After  his  death,  everybody  was  anxious  to  do  jus 
tice  to  the  man,  who,  when  living,  all  pretended  to  de 
spise  ;  and  no  one  exerted  himself  more  than  young  Ma 
son,  the  lawyer.  A  large  monument  was  erected  over 
his  sleeping  body,  on  which  was  inscribed  his  name  and 


JUDGING  FROM  APPEARANCES.  25 

age,  and  the  day  of  his  death,  with  the  following  line 
beneath :  — 

"  JUDGE  NOT  FROM  APPEARANCES." 

Since  the  death  of  Mr.  Jacobs,  the  inhabitants  of  the 
town  in  which  he  lived  have  been  extremely  careful 
how  they  judge  their  fellow-creatures.  If  a  man  has 
the  appearance  of  being  mean  and  miserly,  and  a  word 
is  lisped  to  his  discredit,  a  dozen  voices  will  exclaim, 
"Don't  judge  him  till  he  is  dead  —  remember  old  Ja 
cobs."  The  old  are  respected  and  revered.  No  young 
man,  for  many  a  year,  has  been  known  to  speak  a  disre 
spectful  word  to  the  gray-headed  and  infirm.  The  sin 
gular  life  of  Mr.  Jacobs  has  exerted  a  happy  influence 
throughout  the  place,  and  hundreds  every  year,  who  re 
ceive  comforts  from  the  interest  of  the  property  he  leffc^ 
speak  of  him  with  tears  of  affection.  His  memory  will 
never  die. 

3 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD. 


"Tis  not  true  wisdom  to  subdue 

A  foe  beneath  our  feet ; 
To  cause  the  heart  where  virtue  grew 

To  practise  base  deceit ; 
To  plant  within  the  happy  breast 

A  thought  to  give  it  pain  ; 
Or  enter  circles  pure  and  blest 

An  impious  end  to  gain. 

IN  the  thrifty  town  of  N ,  resided  a  gentleman 

by  the  name  of  Jones.  He  was  a  trader,  and,  through 
a  series  of  prosperous  years,  had  accumulated  a  large 
amount  of  property.  When  a  young  man,  he  was  se 
riously  disposed,  and  became  a  professor  of  religion. 
As  his  piety  had  never  been  questioned  by  his  brethren 
of  the  church,  he  always  continued  a  communicant. 
In  the  common  acceptation  of  the  term,  he  was  a  Chris 
tian.  Within  a  stone's  throw  of  Mr.  Jones'  residence, 
in  a  neat  but  humble  dwelling,  resided  a  gentleman  by 
the  name  of  Watson.  He,  also,  was  a  trader,  and  did 
business  in  the  same  street  with  his  neighbor.  This  man 
made  no  pretensions  to  goodness ;  was  not  a  professor 
of  religion,  but  attended  meeting  at  the  same  church 
with  Mr.  Jones.  His  circumstances  were  humble,  and 
though  he  attended  well  to  his  business,  he  did  not  pros 
per  as  his  neighbor.  Mr.  Watson  belonged  to  that  class 
of  men  who  are  called  sinners  —  the  world's  people  —  in 


THE   WAY   OP   THE   WORLD.  27 

distinction  from  those  who  have  united  themselves  with 
some  Christian  church 

We  have  said  Mr.  Jones  prospered  in  his  business. 
Those  who  were  professors  with  him  —  of  the  like 
faith  —  always  purchased  their  articles  at  his  store  — 
and  when  their  friends  from  the  country  were  in  want 
of  goods,  Mr.  Jones  was  invariably  recommended  as  a 
safe  man  to  deal  with,  and  one  who  kept  articles  of  a 
superior  quality  —  "  For,"  said  they, "  he  is  a  member  of 
our  church."  The  minister  also  patronized  him. 

Thus  Mr.  Jones  prospered  and  made  money  fast. 
He  usually  charged  a  heavy  price  and  made '  a  large 
profit  on  his  articles.  Very  few  were  disposed  to  ask 
a  reduction  from  his  prices.  The  trader  was  stern,  and 
to  request  him  to  take  less  than  he  asked  was  equal  to 
saying  that  he  charged  too  high  for  his  goods.  It  was 
generally  sufficient  to  know  that  he  was  a  professor,  to 
place  implicit  confidence  in  all  that  he  did.  If  it  were 
whispered,  by  any  one,  that  Jones  did  not  deal  fairly,  and 
that  he  took  advantage  of  his  customers,  the  church  si 
lenced  the  suspicions  by  their  creed,  which  took  none 
to  its  bosom,  who  were  not  perfectly  honest  and  trust 
worthy. 

The  professor  was  never  absent  from  his  pew  on  the 
sabbath,  and  at  evening  lectures  he  was  a  constant  at 
tendant.  Here  he  was  very  active.  Seldom  would  he 
attend  a  conference  meeting  where  he  was  not  called 
upon  to  read  a  portion  of  Scripture,  give  an  exhorta 
tion,  make  a  prayer,  or  select  a  hymn  to  be  sung.  Hav 
ing  unlimited  confidence  in  his  own  abilities,  Jones  sel 
dom  excused  himself.  He  would  beseech  sinners  to 
give  their  hearts  to  God,  not  to  love  the  world,  nor  the 
things  of  the  world,  but,  by  a  consistent  Christian  life, 


28  THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD. 

pursue  the  path  to  heaven.  His  voice  was  clear  and 
distinct,  and,  with  perfect  command  of  himself,  whatever 
he  said  gave  perfect  satisfaction  to  the  whole  church. 

Morning  and  night  he  assembled  his  family,  read  a 
chapter  from  the  Bible,  and  then  offered  prayer.  He 
was  very  punctual  in  attending  to  his  religious  duties, 
and  never  on  any  occasion,  neglected  to  perform  them. 

Jones  was  a  selfish  man,  however,  and  seemed  to  dis 
like  those  who  were  in  the  same  business  with  himself, 
and  used  his  strongest  endeavors  to  prevent  purchasers 
from  trading  with  them.  But  no  man  did  he  seem  to 
dislike  more  than  his  good  neighbor.  If  a  member  of 
Ms  church  was  known  to  buy  of  Watson  he  would  men 
tion  the  circumstance  to  two  or  three  of  the  brethren, 
that  they  might  look  into  it — "For,"  said  Jones,  "we 
are  like  children  of  one  family  —  we  should  strive  to 
promote  each  other's  temporal  as  well  as  spiritual  wel 
fare.  I  patronize  the  brethren,  and  it  is  but  just  that 
I  should  be  patronized  by  them. 

No  one  disputed  his  argument,  and  the  offender  was 
persuaded  to  do  right  the  next  time,  and  strive  to  pur 
sue  that  course  which  would  be  likely  to  give  the  least 
offence  to  a  brother. 

It  was  with  difficulty  that  Watson,  by  strict  attention 
to  his  business  and  economy  in  his  family,  could  suc 
ceed.  The  church  and  society  threw  all  their  patron 
age  in  the  hands  of  their  wealthy  brother,  while  he  had 
to  depend  almost  entirely  on  transient  custom.  But 
he  did  not  murmur,  and  always  treated  his  neighbor 
with  respect.  When  a  purchaser  could  not  be  suited 
at  his  store,  he  would  invariably  send  him  to  Mr.  Jones. 

Watson  was  modest  and  unassuming  in  his  conduct. 
His  pew  was  in  a  humble  place  in  the  church,  his  fam- 


THE   WAT   OF  THE   WORLD.  29 

ily  were  neat  but  not  extravagant  in  their  attire,  he 
was  constant  in  his  attendance  on  public  worship,  and 
gave  good  attention  to  what  was  preached.  He  felt 
himself  to  be  a  sinner,  and  the  tear  of  sorrow  for  dis 
obedience  to  the  just  commands  of  God,  would  often 
trickle  down  his  cheek.  Daily  he  read  the  Scriptures 
and  daily  offered  his  secret  prayer,  in  thankfulness  and 
praise,  to  his  Father  above. 

Whenever  a  poor  man  came  to  his  door,  or  an  or 
phan  solicited  charity  at  his  hand,  his  heart  was  ready 
to  give  relief.  He  would  visit  the  sick  and  distressed, 
and  do  all  in  his  power  to  alleviate  their  sorrows  and 
their  sufferings.  The  weary  and  the  faint  never  went 
unblest  from  his  presence. 

Jones,  on  the  contrary,  was  selfish  and  mean.  He 
had  driven  so  many  poor  and  destitute  from  his  door, 
that  but  few  ventured  to  solicit  charity  of  him.  When  a 
subscription  paper  was  handed  round  to  send  missiona 
ries  to  the  heathen,  or  to  support  a  school  at  Owyhee, 
he  invariably  put  his  name  down  for  a  few  dollars.  But 
he  never  visited  the  sick  or  the  widow,  excepting  they 
were  professors  and  members  of  his  church,  and  then 
he  would  pray  with  them,  and  inquire  if  they  were  pre 
pared  to  die — and  comfort  their  poverty  by  informing 
them  they  should  receive  assistance  from  the  parish  — 
and  perhaps  go  away  and  not  mention  their  case.  His 
family  were  dressed  in  the  best  the  market  could  af 
ford,  and  a  spirit  of  pride  was  encouraged  and  fostered 
in  his  children.  They  were  brought  up  to  look  rather 
with  contempt  than  love  on  those  who  were  beneath 
them.  When  of  sufficient  age,  he  sent  his  two  sons  to 
college.  "  It  is  my  determination,"  he  said,  "  that  they 
3* 


30  THE   WAY  OF  THE   WORLD. 

shall  be  preachers  of  the  gospel."  With  feeble  talents, 
unbounded  ambition,  and  unrestrained  pride,  they  had 
but  poor  recommendations  to  the  devoted  life  of  a  truly 
Christian  minister.  But  it  is  a  humiliating  truth  that 
we  have  more  ministers  of  this  description  at  the  pres 
ent  day,  than  any  other  class.  Rich  professors  deem  no 
life  so  honorable  as  a  preacher's,  and  being  abundantly 
able,  their  children  pass  through  college  and  come  forth 
ministers,  as  destitute  of  the  true  requirements  of  a 
godly  minister  as  it  is  possible  for  men  to  be.  It  is 
such  who  spend  their  lives  in  wrangling  on  doctrinal 
points  —  cause  dissensions  —  and  make  the  ministry  a 
hissing  and  a  reproach  throughout  the  whole  world. 

During  one  year  that  business  was  dull,  Mr.  Watson 
had  neglected  to  pay  his  pew  tax,  when  it  was  due. 
Being  called  upon,  he  stated  to  the  collector  that  he 
was  unable  to  cancel  the  debt  at  present,  but  before 
many  days  he  would  pay  it.  A  few  weeks  went  by  and 
on  meeting  the  collector,  Watson  informed  him  that  his 
tax  money  was  now  ready.  To  his  utter  astonishment, 
the  gentleman  replied,  "  Your  pew  was  sold  yesterday 
for  the  taxes." 

"  Indeed !  and  who  purchased  it  ?  " 
"  Your  neighbor,  Mr.  Jones." 

"  But  has  Mr.  Jones  paid  his  last  year's  taxes  yet  ?  " 
"  Why  —  no  —  but  he  is  good  for  them  at  any  time." 
Watson  was  grieved  at  this  treatment,  because  he  had 
never  refused  to  pay  his  taxes,  but  merely  put  it  off  a 
few  weeks,  till  it  was  more  convenient.     Instead  of  be 
ing  angry  and  saying  as  perhaps  Jones  would,  in  such  a 
case  — "  He  may  have  my  pew,  he  is  welcome  to  it,  I 
will  hire  a  pew  in  some  other  church  "  —  he  went  to  Mr. 
Jones  to  purchase  it  again. 


THE  WAY  OP  THE  WOKLD.  31 

"  You  may  have  the  pew,"  said  the  professor,  "  by 
paying  me  five  dollars  in  advance  of  what  I  gave." 

"But  you  are  aware,  Mr.  Jones,  I 'knew  nothing  of 
the  matter.  I  would  never  have  permitted  it  to  be  sold 
for  that." 

"  I  can't  help  that,  Mr.  Watson.  The  pew  was  sold 
and  I  bought  it.  If  you  will  give  me  five  dollars  more 
than  I  paid  for  it,  you  may  have  it,  if  not  I  will  rent  it. 
There  are  three  or  four  who  have  spoken  to  me  about  it 
already.  You  can  do  as  you  please." 

"  Well,  rather  than  lose  the  pew,  I  will  give  you  what 
you  ask,  although  I  do  not  think  it  right  for  you  to 
take  it." 

"  What !  accuse  me  of  doing  wrong  ?  I  am  aston 
ished  at  you,  Mr.  Watson.  I  can  get  double  for  the 
pew  at  any  time." 

Without  multiplying  words,  the  poor  man  paid  him 
what  he  asked  and  was  once  more  the  owner  of  a  pew. 

Time  passed  on,  and  the  Christian  and  the  sinner 
continued  their  business.  The  former  adding  wealth  to 
wealth,  while  the  latter  continued  poor.  One  was 
proud  and  overbearing  —  the  other  meek  and  conde 
scending.  One  loved  the  praise  of  men  —  the  other 
was  ambitious  for  the  praise  of  God.  As  usual,  the 
church  and  society  patronized  the  wealthy  Jones,  while 
they  passed  by  the  humble  Watson. 

One  morning,  quite  early,  the  professor  called  at  the 
store  of  his  neighbor,  informing  him  that  he  had  pur 
chased  a  lot  of  excellent  land  for  two  dollars  an  acre. 

"  As  you  find  it  rather  difficult  to  get  along,"  said  Jones, 
"  I  will  sell  you  half  this  land  —  about  a  thousand  acres 
—  on  which  you  can  double  your  money." 

"  But  I  am  unable  to  buy  land  at  present.     I  find  it 


32  THE  WAY  OP  THE  WORLD. 

exceedingly  difficult  to  collect  money  enough  to  pay  my 
just  debts." 

"  No  matter  for  that.  I  don't  want  the  money  at 
present.  I  will  take  your  note  on  six  and  nine  months, 
and,  in  the  mean  time,  you  can  sell  the  land  and  double 
your  money." 

Here  was  strong  temptation  to  "Watson ;  but  when  he 
considered  the  dangers  of  speculation,  and  that  the 
Bible  said,  that  those  who  would  suddenly  become  rich, 
should  have  many  snares  he  replied,  "  I  think,  sir,  I  will 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  land." 

"  You  are  unwise,  very.  Now  here  is  a  chance  for 
you  to  make  money  —  and  make  it,  too,  in  an  honorable 
way.  If  you  neglect  this  opportunity,  you  may  never 
have  another." 

"  But  suppose  we  should  not  sell  the  land,  where 
could  I  raise  the  money  ?  " 

"  Don't  let  that  trouble  you ;  I  will  see  that  all  is 
right." 

After  a  great  deal  of  persuasion,  Mr.  Watson  was  in 
duced  to  take  the  land  and  give  his  notes.  He  trusted 
altogether  to  his  neighbor,  who  informed  him  that  he 
knew  the  land  to  be  worth  more  than  double  what  he 
gave  for  it,  and  there  was  no  doubt  they  would  both 
realize  a  handsome  profit. 

A  few  days  after  this  transaction,  Mr.  "Watson  was  in 
formed  by  a  friend  that  the  land  he  had  bought  of  the 
professor  was  almost  valueless,  —  that  it  was  not  actii- 
ally  worth  one  dollar  an  acre  —  and  that  was  all  that 
Mr.  Jones  had  given  for  it.  Watson  could  hardly  be 
lieve  that  he  had  been  so  deceived,  and  on  inquiring  of 
his  neighbor,  he  made  it  appear  that  all  was  right,  and 
it  would  so  prove  in  the  end.  But  still  Watson  was 


THE  WAY  OP  THE  WORLD.  33 

fearful  of  the  consequences,  because  he  knew  very  well 
that  he  was  unable  to  meet  the  notes  when  they  became 
due,  unless  the  land  was  sold. 

Six  months  passed  away,  and  the  property  was  un 
sold  ;  but  Watson  was  told  not  to  give  himself  any 
trouble,  that  perhaps  they  might  dispose  of  it  before 
long.  He  felt  easy,  thinking  his  neighbor  would  not 
present  the  notes  unless  the  land  was  sold.  But  he  was 
mistaken.  At  the  end  of  the  nine  months,  both  notes 
were  presented  for  payment. 

"  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  raise  the  money,"  said 
Watson. 

"  But  you  must  dispose  of  some  of  your  property," 
said  Jones,  "  for  I  want  my  pay,  and  must  have  it." 

He  was  reminded  of  the  transaction,  but  Jones  did 
not  seem  to  recollect  any  thing  further  than  this,  that 
he  was  to  pay  the  notes  when  they  became  due.  His 
neighbor  left  him,  and  the  next  day  he  received  no 
tice  of  an  attachment  upon  his  house  for  two  thousand 
dollars  and  costs  of  attachment.  In  vain  did  Watson 
see  and  converse  with  Jones.  He  could  get  no  satisfac 
tion.  He  owed  him  fairly,  and  he  must  have  his  pay. 

"  But  you  will  have  to  sacrifice  the  house,  for  nobody 
will  give  what  it  is  worth  in  these  hard  times." 

"  I  can't  help  that.  You  must  get  some  friend  who 
has  money  to  bid  it  in." 

"  I  have  no  friend  with  that  amount  who  can  spare 
it  at  present.  I  know  not  what  course  to  pursue,  if  I 
am  turned  out  of  the  house." 

"  Oh,  you  will  do  well  enough.  You  have  money  and 
friends,  too  —  I  will  risk  you  anywhere." 

When  the  church  heard  what  Jones  had  done,  they 
censured  Watson  for  entering  the  land  speculation.  "  It 


34  THE  WAY  OP  THE  WORLD. 

is  on  account  of  his  own  folly  that  he  is  about  to  lose 
his  house.  If  people  will  speculate  with  the  expectation 
of  making  money,  they  must  suffer  the  consequences." 

Nothing  was  said  to  the  professor.  He  was  rich  —  in 
regular  standing  with  them  —  a  brother  in  the  church  — 
and  could  not  do  wrong. 

The  day  of  the  sale  had  arrived,  and  the  notes  were 
not  taken  care  of.  Once  more  Watson  called  on  his 
neighbor  to  beg  of  him  not  to  sacrifice  the  property,  or 
to  turn  him  out  of  doors.  "For  you  know  when  I 
bought  the  land,  I  was  urged  to  take  it  against  my  will. 
It  was  only  the  promise  that  I  should  not  be  troubled 
that  induced  me  to  sign  the  notes." 

"•A  likely  story,  Mr.  Watson.  You  know  I  want  my 
pay.  Whenever  I  sign  notes,  I  expect  to  meet  them, 
and  should  do  it,  even  though  I  had  to  sacrifice  all  my 
property." 

"  But  what  can  I  do  ?  I  have  a  large  family  on  my 
hands ;  and  it  is  only  by  prudence  that  I  am  able  to  get 
along  without  getting  in  debt.  The  times,  you  know, 
are  exceedingly  hard." 

"  The  house  must  be  sold,  and  there  is  an  end  of  it. 
'Tis  no  use  to  whine  to  death  because  necessity  compels 
us  to  give  up  our  property.  'Tis  better  to  meet  it  like 
a  Christian" — and  so  saying,  he  walked  away. 

The  hour  for  the  sale  arrived,  and  the  people  had 
gathered.  The  first  bid  for  the  house  was  made  by  a 
friend  of  Jones,  whom  he  had  probably  employed  to 
buy  it  in.  One  hundred  dollars  after  another  was  bid, 
until  the  sum  reached  to  two  thousand  and  twenty  dol 
lars.  And  that  was  the  bid  of  Jones'  friend.  Just  as 
the  auctioneer  was  striking  his  hammer  for  the  last 
time,  a  young  man  was  seen  coming  up  the  street. 


THE  WAT  OF  THE  WORLD.  35 

Just  in  time,  be  bid  fifty  dollars  more,  and  now  the  con 
test  was  between  him  and  Jones'  friend ;  finally,  the 
house  was  knocked  off  to  the  young  man  for  three  thou 
sand  dollars. 

"  Whose  is  it  ? "  inquired  the  auctioneer. 

"  Charles  Mason's,"  said  the  young  man,  and  a  frown 
was  on  the  brow  of  Jones. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?  "  said  he  to  the  young  man. 

Without  deigning  to  reply,  "  Mr.  Watson !  "  said  the 
purchaser  —  and  the  poor  man  stepped  to  him,  weeping 
—  "Mr.  Watson,  I  have  bought  this  house  —  it  was 
taken  from  you  by  the  spirit  of  avarice  —  I  now  make 
you  a  present  of  it  —  the  house  is  yours." 

The  poor  man  fell  on  the  neck  of  the  young  man,  and 
embraced  him,  and  wept  like  a  child,  while  the  specta 
tors  gathered  round,  unable  to  solve  the  mystery. 

"  Charles  Mason,"  said  Jones,  as  soon  as  Watson 
arose,  "you  are  no  longer  worthy  of  my  confidence, 
and  from  this  time  I  forbid  you  an  entrance  to  my 
house." 

"  Wretch !  begone !  "  exclaimed  the  young  man,  "  you 
will  yet  receive  the  just  reward  of  your  oppression." 

Amid  the  hisses  of  a  few,  the  professor  hurried  away, 
muttering  something  which  could  not  be  heard,  but  his 
anger  was  seen  to  be  at  its  highest  pitch. 

"  Come  with  me,  my  benefactor,  my  best  friend,"  at 
last  said  Watson  through  his  tears,  and  the  young  man 
followed  him  to  the  house. 

The  family  were  weeping.  "Dry  your  tears  and 
bless  God,"  said  the  husband  and  father,  as  he  closed 
the  door,  and  bid  the  young  man  be  seated. 

"  To  this  gentleman  we  owe  every  thing ;  he  has 
bought  the  house  —  but,  0  sir,  explain  the  mystery." 


36  THE  WAY  OF  THE  WOELD. 

"You  know,  Mr.  Watson,"  said  Charles,  "that  I 
have  been  in  the  store  of  Mr.  Jones  for  many  years.  I 
am  knowing  to  much  of  his  strange  conduct,  but  I  am 
well  acquainted  with  the  course  he  has  pursued  tow 
ards  you  —  the  manner  in  which  he  wronged  you.  I 
could  not  endure  to  see  a  poor  man  brought  into  diffi 
culty,  and  then  turned  out  of  doors  by  the  avarice  of 
one  who  pretends  to  be  a  Christian.  Sir,  it  is  your  self- 
denying,  Christian  conduct  and  his  spirit  of  evil,  that 
has  moved  me  to  thwart  his  designs,  and  make  you 
still  happy  in  your  dwelling.  It  is  yours.  The  deed  I 
have  done  since  I  have  entered  this  room,  has  made  me 
the  happiest  of  men." 

There  was  not  a  dry  eye  present.  The  family  gath 
ered  around  their  benefactor,  and  expressed  their  grati 
tude  upon  their  knees,  invoking  the  blessing  of  Heaven 
upon  him  —  nor  would  they  permit  him  to  depart  with 
out  his  assurance  that  he  would  call  and  see  them  on 
the  following  day. 

Charles  Mason  was  ;he  son  of  a  rich  man,  who  left 
him  at  his  decease  several  thousand  dollars,  which  was 
now  at  interest.  He  had  spent  several  years  in  the 
store  of  Mr.  Jones,  to  whom  he  had  loaned  part  of  his 
money.  The  next  day,  on  calling  upon  him,  he  was 
coolly  received. 

"  I  have  no  further  use  for  your  services,"  said  he. 
"  Such  conduct  as  yours  merits  my  sovereign  contempt." 

"  Your  conduct,  sir,  and  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  it, 
is  as  far  removed  from  that  enjoined  by  Him  you  pro 
fess  to  serve-,  as  heaven  is  from  hell.  It  must  be  de 
spised  by  all  honorable  men." 

"  Enough  of  your  sauciness ;  let  me  have  no  more  of 
it,  or  you  shall  leave  the  shop  instantly." 


THE  WAY  OP  THE  WORLD.  37 

"  Mr.  Jones,  but  give  me  a  draft  for  what  is  due  me, 
and  I  will  trouble  you  no  more." 

As  Jones  handed  it  to  him,  he  exclaimed,  "  Begone, 
you  wretch !  "  and  the  noble  youth  walked  away  without 
deigning  to  notice  his  remark. 

Charles  immediately  settled  for  the  house  he  had  pur 
chased  —  took  a  deed  of  the  land  —  and  put  the  bal 
ance  of  his  property  into  the  stock  of  Mr.  Watson,  and 
entered  into  copartnership  with  him. 

Day  by  day  their  business  increased.  Since  Charles 
left  Jones,  many  of  the  old  customers  had  followed  him 
to  the  new  store,  and  now  gave  him  their  trade.  They 
had  as  much  as  they  could  do.  The  conduct  of  Jones 
was  spoken  of  and  despised  by  all,  while  the  noble 
course  of  the  young  man  was  commended  as  worthy  of 
all  praise. 

A  twelvemonth  did  not  elapse  after  the  young  man 
went  into  business  with  Watson,  before  he  led  to  the  al 
tar  as  gentle  and  lovely  a  creature  as  ever  breathed. 
It  was  Eliza  Watson,  the  daughter  of  the  kind  and  be 
nevolent  man.  She  was  every  thing  that  heart  could  de 
sire.  Brought  up  by  an  estimable  mother  and  a  kind, 
benevolent,  and  Christian  father,  she  inherited  a  sweet 
disposition,  and  a  heart  with  no  perceptible  blemish. 
She  was  just  such  a  being  to  make  a  good  man  happy. 
Two  more  contented,  more  affectionate  beings  never 
lived.  For  years  they  prospered ;  their  course  approved 
by  man  —  and  their  walk  and  conduct  consistent  with 
the  precepts  of  Christianity. 

Mr.  Jones'  business  gradually  declined ;  but  having 
amassed  a  large  property,  and  being  stern  and  unyield 
ing  in  his  disposition,  and  active  in  the  church,  he  re 
tained  his  standing  until  the  close  of  his  life.  He  died 
4 


38  THE  WAY  OF  THE  WOELD. 

suddenly,  and  was  buried  with  great  pomp.  On  his 
splendid  tombstone  was  inscribed:  "Blessed  are  the 
dead  who  die  in  the  Lord." 

Mr.  Watson  lived  to  threescore  years  and  ten,  and 
then  died,  trusting  for  salvation  in  his  Redeemer.  His 
last  words  were,  "  Into  thy  hands,  0  Lord,  I  commit  my 
spirit,"  —  and  he  breathed  his  last. 

His  remains  were  followed  to  the  grave  by  the  poor 
and  the  orphan  whom  he  had  blessed.  An  humble  stone 
marks  the  place  of  Ms  sepulture,  on  which  is  engraved 
—  "  For  me  to  die  is  gain." 

Charles  Mason  and  his  wife  may  be  often  seen  on  a 
summer  day,  bending  over  the  grave  of  the  good  man. 
A  little  tree  has  been  planted  there,  by  their  own  hands, 
which  grows  and  flourishes.  They  have  cherished  in 
their  memory,  the  love  and  kindness  of  their  father, 
which  will  never  be  erased  till  their  bodies  sleep  beneath 
the  sods  of  the  valley,  and  their  spirits  are  united  to  his 
in  the  paradise  of  God. 


rv 


HONESTY  AND  DISHONESTY. 


Oh,  dark  and  fearful  is  the  path 

That  leadeth  man  astray ; 
No  blushing  flowers  to  love  it  hath  — 

No  greenness  spreads  the  way. 

He  is  a  brother  and  a  friend 

Who,  when  our  lot  is  low, 
With  pleasant  words  will  aid  extend, 

And  wipe  the  tears  that  flow. 

"BE  a  good  boy,  Henry.  You  are  now  fourteen 
years  old,  and  I  have  made  arrangements  with  Mr.  Si- 
monton  to  take  you  into  his  store.  Be  obedient  to  your 
master ;  in  all  things  be  just  and  reasonable.  I  have 
confidence  in  him,  or  I  would  not  consent  for  you  to  go 
from  home.  He  will  be  kind  to  you,  and  always  treat 
you  well  if  you  do  your  duty.  Be  perfectly  honest, 
Henry:  never  take  the  value  of  a  copper  from  your 
master,  even  if  you  stand  in  great  need  of  money.  If 
you  do  your  duty,  and  are  faithful  to  Mr.  Simonton, 
you  will  secure  his  confidence,  and  the  respect  of  all 
who  know  you,  and  become  a  useful  man.  Mind  what 
I  tell  you ;  be  honest,  be  industrious,  attend  strictly 
to  your  business,  and  never  associate  with  the  vicious 
and  unprincipled." 

Thus  spake  Mr.  Jones  «o  his  sor,  who  was  about 

39 


40  HONESTY   AND   DISHONESTY. 

leaving  the  parental  roof  for  a  clerkship  in  a  store. 
Henry  was  a  dutiful  child,  and  had  received  excellent 
precepts  and  good  examples  from  his  parents. 

"  I  shall  try,  father,"  said  the  boy,  "  to  please  Mr. 
Simonton,  and  I  think  he  will  never  have  occasion  to 
speak  a  cross  word  to  me." 

"  You  must  do  your  best  to  give  satisfaction  to  your 
master,"  said  his  mother.  "  Remember  that  you  will 
have  to  put  up  with  more  inconveniences  than  you 
would  at  home,  and  that  you  cannot  always  do  as  you 
would  desire.  Endeavor  to  be  obedient  to  Mr.  Simon- 
ton,  so  that  he  will  never  have  occasion  to  reprove  you, 
and  so  conduct  yourself  that  he  will  never  hesitate  to 
trust  you." 

With  cheerful  spirits  and  a  happy  heart,  the  youth 
left  his  parents  and  entered  the  store  of  the  merchant. 
Mr.  Simonton  did  an  extensive  business  for  the  place, 
and  employed  another  clerk,  who  was  about  two  years 
the  senior  of  Henry.  His  name  was  Charles  Bedford. 
It  was  not  long  before  Henry  became  the  companion 
and  friend  of  Charles ;  the  latter  could  not  help  loving 
the  former,  he  was  so  gentle  and  amiable  in  his  disposi 
tion.  There  was  a  difference  in  the  feelings  of  the 
youths.  Henry  was  strict  in  his  adherence  to  what  he 
considered  correct  principles.  He  abhorred  deception 
and  profanity,  and  strictly  observed  the  sabbath  by  at 
tending  church,  as  he  had  been  brought  up  by  his  par 
ents.  But  Charles  would  often  evade  and  equivocate, 
and  sometimes  utter  falsehoods.  When  he  was  dis 
pleased,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  make  use  of  profane 
words,  and  as  for  the  sabbath,  he  did  not  believe  in  its 
observance,  and  would  often  pass  the  day  in  strolling 
about  the  streets. 


HONESTY  AND   DISHONESTY.  41 

The  boys  boarded  together  with  their  master.  One 
night  as  they  retired  to  rest,  Charles  remarked,  — 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  are  so  plaguy  particular  about 
what  you  do." 

"  In  what  respect,  Charles  ?  " 

"  In  every  thing.  You  wont  stay  at  home  on  Sun 
day,  you  know,  and  seem  to  think  it  wrong  to  enjoy 
yourself  on  that,  day.  I  think,  as  we  are  confined  to 
the  store  all  the  week,  there's  no  harm  in  enjoying  one's 
self  on  Sunday." 

"  But  I  take  more  pleasure  in  attending  church  than 
I  should  in  loitering  about.  In  a  good  sermon  I  feel 
considerable  interest.  I  also  like  good  'singing.  I 
would  not  stay  away  from  church  on  any  account." 

"  And  then,  Henry,  you  are  so  particular  to  speak 
just  so.  I  don't  know  as  I  ever  heard  you  swear.  There 
is  no  harm  in  using  a  few  trifling  words." 

"  But  what  good  do  they  do  ?  " 

"Oh!  one  appears  better  to  use  them  —  and  then 
they  come  in  so  easy  that  I  cannot  help  using  them." 

"  If  I  cannot  appear  well  without  swearing,  I  shall 
be  contented  to  appear  badly.  I  know  I  shall  never 
learn  to  use  profane  words." 

"  You  will  get  over  such  feelings,  by  and  by.  You'll 
never  be  thought  any  thing  of  unless  you  do ;  and 
there's  another  thing,  you  will  not  smoke  a  cigar. 
What  harm  is  there  in  smoking,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  " 

"  It  does  no  good.  I  have  heard  it  said  that  smoking 
leads  to  drinking,  and  that  there  are  few  if  any  drunk 
ards  who  do  not  use  tobacco  in  some  shape  or  another. 
You  wouldn't  wish  to  be  a  drunkard,  I  hope  ?  " 

"No — and  I  never  intend  to.  I  don't  exactly  like 
4* 


42  HONESTY   AND   DISHONESTY. 

your  temperance  societies ;  I  wouldn't  join  one  on  any 
account.  I  like  freedom  from  all  restraint." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  talk  so.  The  temperance 
societies,  I  believe,  are  doing  a  great  deal  of  good." 

"  You  are  foolish,  Henry,  to  think  so.  But  you  will 
change  your  mind  before  long !  " 

Thus  the  two  youths  conversed  till  they  dropped 
asleep.  It  was  evident  that  Charles  had  had  a  different 
education  from  his  companion.  His  parents  were  of 
that  class  who  look  upon  mere  morality  as  a  virtue, 
even  though  the  heart  be  depraved.  If  outwardly  the 
man  appeared  well,  it  was  sufficient  —  and  thus  they 
taught  their  children. 

For  a  few  months  Charles  and  Henry  moved  on  pleas 
antly  together,  but  a  keen  observer  could  have  noticed 
the  bad  influence  that  young  Bedford  exercised  over 
his  companion.  Being  with  him  constantly,  and  hear 
ing  his  conversation  and  observing  his  conduct,  Henry, 
by  degrees,  learned  the  disgusting  habit  of  using  pro 
fane  words,  and  was  less  particular  in  his  observance  of 
the  sabbath.  He  less  frequently  called  upon  his  par 
ents,  and  often  spent  his  evenings  walking  in  the 
streets,  or  in  some  improper  shanty,  where  the  rum 
glass  was  freely  circulated.  His  mother  saw  the  alter 
ation  in  her  son,  but  knew  not  to  what  cause  to  impute 
it.  One  evening,  when  he  called  upon  her,  she  re 
marked,  — 

"  Henry,  where  is  it  that  you  spend  your  evenings  ? 
You  haven't  been  at  home  for  more  than  a  week." 

"  I  generally  go  with  Charles  Bedford." 

"  Where  do  you  go  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  to  one  place,  and  sometimes  to  another." 


HONESTY  AND   DISHONESTY.  43 

"  I  am  afraid,  my  son,  that  Charles  is  not  so  good  a 
Boy  as  he  ought  to  be,  and  that  he  will  lead  you  astray." 

"  So  you  always  say,  mother,  when  I  go  with  any 
body  I  like." 

"  But,  my  child,  I  never  speak  unless  it  is  for  y6ur 
good.  It  troubles  me  to  have  you  away  from  home 
every  evening." 

"  You  no  need  to  have  any  fears  of  me.  I  shall  not 
go  into  bad  company." 

"  I  have  known  many  a  boy  to  be  ruined  by  bad  as 
sociates,  and  I  fear  that  boy  is  not  so  upright  as  he 
ought  to  be." 

Thus  would  Henry's  mother  talk  with  him.  She 
was  apprehensive  that  he  would  be  led  away  by  Charles 
and  ruined.  Her  fears  were  not  entirely  groundless. 
Young  Bedford  was  loose  and  irregular  in  his  habits, 
and  had  so  insinuated  himself  into  the  favor  of  Henry, 
that  the  latter  did  not  hesitate  to  follow  his  advice  and 
example.  Charles  was  in  the  constant  practice  of 
using  profane  words,  smoking  cigars,  and  spending  his 
evenings  among  those  who  did  not  hesitate  occasionally 
to  take  a  glass  of  cordial.  Henry  had  learned  to  swear 
and  smoke  from  his  companion,  and  every  night  he 
accompanied  him  to  his  favorite  resorts.  Once  Charles 
took  a  glass  of  wine,  and  invited  his  friend  to  partake 
with  him. 

"  I  should  rather  not,"  said  he. 

"  Come  —  don't  be  afraid." 

"No  —  I  don't  wish  for  any." 

"  It  will  not  hurt  you.  Come  —  come,  drink  a  glass 
with  me." 

Stopping  a  moment  to  think,  he  replied,  "  I  will  not 
drink  any  to-night." 


44  HONESTY   AND   DISHONESTY. 

"  You  are  foolish,  Henry." 

"  Yes,  he's  a  devilish  fool,"  remarked  the  retailer ; 
"  and  I'll  be  bound  he's  been  to  the  temperance  meet 
ings  and  heard  that  cursed  Neal  Dow,  or  that  brawling 
John  Walton,  or  that  notorious  Joe  Lord  speak.  Drink 
away,  Charles,  and  I'll  drink  with  you." 

"  I  am  no  fool,  sir,"  said  Henry  to  the  barkeeqer ;  "  but 
what  use  is  there  for  me  to  drink  when  I  do  not  need 
it,  and  have  not  the  least  desire  for  it  ?  " 

"  Then  drink  to  please  your  friend,  who  has  so  kindly 
offered  it  to  you." 

"  Suppose  I  drink  one  glass  it  maybe  the  ruin  of  me." 

"  Who  told  you  that  story  ?  John  Crockett,  I'll  be 
bound  to  say.  Let  John  look  at  home.  He  has  enough 
to  do  to  mind  his  own  affairs." 

"  Who  is  John  Crockett  ?     I  don't  know  him." 

"  You  don't.  He  has  been  whispering  in  your  ears 
more  than  once,  that  I  can  swear.  Come,  take  hold 
and  drink." 

"  Yes,  don't  be  fearful,  my  little  lad,"  said  one  who 
was  lying  upon  a  bench ;  "  don't  mind  what  the  tem 
perance  folks  tell  ye.  What  do  they  care  about  you  or 
anybody  else  ?  All  they  want  is  power  to  rule  the 
state.  Then  they'll  be  satisfied.  Come,  my  fine  fel 
low,"  he  continued,  rising  from  his  seat,  and  patting 
Henry  on  the  shoulder ;  "  take  one  glass,  just  to  please 
us  all." 

"  Do,  Henry,  do,"  said  Charles,  putting  the  glass  to 
his  lips ;  "  there,  drink.  That's  a  fine  fellow  —  I  knew 
you  were  no  fool ; "  he  continued,  as  Henry  took  one 
or  two  swallows.  « 

"  I  knew  that  youth  was  too  intelligent,"  said  the  re 
tailer,  "  to  listen  to  the  harangues  of  Dow  and  Walton. 


HONESTY   AND  DISHONESTY.  45 

Keep  him  from  their  influence,  and  he  will  grow  up  a 
fine  fellow." 

After  conversing  for  about  an  hour  in  a  like  strain, 
cursing  the  temperance  societies  and  all  who  addressed 
their  meetings,  —  Henry  remaining  the  most  of  the  time 
silent,  —  he  and  his  companions  went  to  their  lodgings 
and  retired. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you  ? "  said  Charles,  ad 
dressing  his  friend,  as  he  jumped  into  bed. 

"What  would  my  mother  say,  if  she  knew  how  I 
have  conducted?  I  have  tasted  of  ardent  spirits  to 
night."  And  the  poor  boy  could  not  help  shedding 
tears. 

"Your  mother  will  never  know  it  —  and  certainly, 
she  would  not  object  to  your  enjoying  yourself,  if  she 
did." 

"  But  what  will  it  lead  to  ?  Who  knows  but  I  may 
become  intemperate  ? " 

"You'll  be  a  fool  if  you  do.  Can't  you  now  and 
then  take  a  glass  of  wine  or  cordial,  without  being  a 
drunkard  ?.  I  pity  you,  if  you  can't." 

"  The  greatest  drunkards  commenced  by  one  drop. 
If  my  mother  knew  what  I  have  done  to-night,  she 
would  not  rest  till  I  had  left  this  place." 

"  Your  mother  is  like  the  rest  of  the  Orthodox,  al 
ways  borrowing  trouble,  and  always  afraid  somebody's 
going  to  be  ruined." 

Without  extending  the  conversation,  Henry  closed 
his  eyes  in  sleep  —  not,  however,  without  resolving  in 
his  mind  never  to  go  into  a  grog-shop  again. 

'Early  in  the  morning,  as  he  was  passing  down  the 
street  to  his  shop,  he  met  the  retailer,  who  sold  to  his 
companion  the  spirit  the  night  previous. 


46  HONESTY  AND   DISHONESTY. 

"  All,  my  little  fellow,"  said  he,  "  I  was  much  pleased 
with  you  last  night,  and  should  be  happy  to  have  you 
call  on  me  again.  That  Charles  Bedford  is  a  capital 
fellow.  Follow  his  advice,  and  you'll  make  something." 

Henry  made  but  a  word  in  reply,  and  entered  upon 
his  duties  at  the  shop.  All  that  day  he  said  but  a  few 
words,  while  Charles  appeared  to  be  as  cheerful  as  a 
lark.  He  felt  he  had  taken  a  wrong  step,  and  disobeyed 
a  kind  mother,  and  he  was  unhappy. 

But,  by  associating  constantly  with  Charles,  the  idea 
that  it  was  wrong  to  drink  a  little  spirit  occasionally 
gradually  wore  away,  and  he  objected  less  to  go  into  re 
tailers'  shops.  With  his  companion,  Henry  denounced 
the  temperance  people  as  fanatical,  and  was  as  earnest 
in  condemning  their  course  as  any  of  his  associates.  He 
now  preferred  the  company  of  the  profane  and  drink 
ing  to  the  steady  and  industrious,  and  often  absented 
himself  from  church  on  the  sabbath.  So  much  for  the 
influence  and  bad  example  of  a  companion.  His  par 
ents  noticed  the  change  in  their  son,  and  entreated 
him  to  keep  aloof  from  bad  associates ;  but  they  knew 
not  the  extent  of  his  departure  from  their  precepts. 

After  they  had  got  through  with  the  business  of  the 
day,  and  supper  was  ended,  Charles  and  Henry  went 
into  their  chamber,  when  the  former  remarked,  — 

"I  have  an  idea  of  taking  a  ride  this  evening  — 
should  you  like  to  go  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  but  I  should.  But  where  can  you  ob 
tain  a  horse  ? " 

"  Say  nothing,  and  I  will  tell  you.  On  the  floor  of 
the  shop,  under  the  money-drawer,  I  picked  up  a  two- 
dollar  bill." 

"  It  probably  belongs  to  Mr.  Simonton." 


HONESTY  AND  DISHONESTY.  47 

"  How  do  I  know  that  ?  I  found  the  money,  and  it 
is  mine.  If  you  will  go  with  me,  I  will  hire  a  horse 
and  chaise." 

After  a  moment's  hesitation,  Henry  decided  to  go. 
That  evening,  they  spent  the  two  dollars.  Henry,  by 
the  request  of  his  companion,  handed  the  bill  to  Mr. 
Plummer,  the  stable-keeper,  to  take  out  his  pay  for  the 
horse. 

Early  the  next  morning,  Mr.  Simonton  took  Henry 
aside,  and  remarked  — 

"  I  have  often  missed  money  from  my  drawer.  It  is 
unpleasant  for  me  to  accuse  you  of  dishonesty ;  more 
especially  one  as  young  as  you  are,  whose  integrity  I 
never  wish  to  doubt.  But  I  must  say,  I  have  strong 
suspicions  that  you  are  not  so  honest  as  you  ought 
to  be." 

"  Sir,  I  have  taken  no  money  from  you,"  said  Henry, 
shedding  tears. 

"  Look  here,"  continued  Mr.  Simonton,  taking  a  bill 
from  his  pocket-book,  "  did  you  ever  see  that  before  ?  " 

Henry  saw  it  was  the  very  bill  he  had  passed  to  Mr. 
Plummer  the  night  before. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  he  ;  "  I  think  that  is  the  bill  I  passed 
to  the  stable-keeper  last  evening." 

"  It  is  the  very  one,  and  it  belonged  to  me,  and  you 
must  have  taken  it  from  the  money-drawer." 

"  It  was  handed  to  me  by  Charles,  who  said  he  found 
it  on  the  floor." 

"  A  likely  story.  But  if  it  were  true,  you  knew  that 
it  belonged  to  me.  But  the  story  I  do  not  believe. 
Charles  has  been  with  me  a  number  of  years,  and  I 
have  always  found  him  trustworthy." 


48  HONESTY   AND   DISHONESTY. 

"  It  certainly  is  as  I  tell  you,"  said  the  boy,  sobbing 
aloud. 

"  You  should  have  wept  before.  I  cannot  consent  to 
have  a  dishonest  boy  in  my  employment.  I  shall  di 
rectly  send  you  to  your  father." 

"  I  am  not  so  guilty,  sir,  as  you  may  suppose,  and  if 
you'll  try  me  once  more,  I'll  be  more  careful  what  I  do. 
I  am  sorry  I  consented  to  go  with  Charles,  and  would 
not  do  it  again  for  the  world." 

"  I  am  aware,  Henry,  if  I  turn  you  away,  and  for 
dishonesty,  too,  it  will  nearly  ruin  you.  Who  will  trust 
you  again  ?  Where  can  you  get  a  place  ?  " 

"  It  is  this  thought  that  makes  me  •  feel  so ;  and  I 
know  my  mother  would  not  sleep  if  she  knew  this.  If 
you  will  try  me  again,  I  will  study  your  interest,  and 
never  be  guilty  of  a  dishonest  or  improper  thing." 

"  Henry,  you  know  my  feelings  towards  you.  I  have 
felt  a  deep  interest  in  your  welfare,  and  have  always 
been  kind  to  you." 

"  I  know  it,  and  for  this  reason,  I  feel  so  much  the 
worse,"  said  the  boy,  continuing  to  weep. 

"  If  I  should  consent  to  have  you  remain  in  my  store, 
you  must  turn  over  a  new  leaf  to-day.  I  understand 
you  have  been  in  the  habit  of  late  of  visiting  the  miser 
able  grog-shops  in Street,  and  spending  your  even 
ings  among  the  people  who  meet  there  to  drink  and 
carouse  —  and  also  that  you  have  sometimes  partaken 
of  the  intoxicating  cup.  Is  this  true,  Henry  ? " 

"It  is  true,  sir  —  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  was  led 
away,  and  over-persuaded  to  drink ;  but  I  will  not  do  so 
again.  I'm  ashamed  to  think  I  have  abused  your 
kindness,  and  have  come  to  this.  If  you'll  forgive  me 
this  once,  I  will  give  you  no  future  trouble." 


HONESTY  AND   DISHONESTY.  49 

"You  know,  Henry,  I  feel  for  your  situation,  and 
would  not  hesitate  to  retain  you,  if  I  were  sure  that 
you  would  be  faithful  to  me  and  keep  away  from  bad 
associates." 

"  Just  try  me,  sir,  this  once." 

"  Well,  Henry,  as  you  are  sorry  for  the  course  that 
you  have  pursued,  and  seem  resolved  to  become  a  good 
boy,  you  may  continue  with  me,  and  I  shall  say  nothing 
about  this  affair.  Henry,  I  wish  you  would  listen  to 
my  advice,  and  never  go  near  a  grog-shop,  or  spend 
your  evenings  with  a  gang  of  unprincipled  youth.  Use 
no  profane  words  yourself,  and  discountenance  their 
use  in  others.  When  you  came  with  me,  you  were 
free  from  this  charge,  and  I  feel  sorry  that  you  ever  as 
sociated  with  other  than  upright  and  virtuous  youth. 
Guard  your  heart  and  your  lips  —  watch  against  temp 
tation,  and  you  will  grow  up  an  honest  man,  to  be  re 
spected  by  all." 

Henry  thanked  his  master  for  his  kindness,  and  re 
solved,  as  he  attended  to  his  duties,  never  to  do  any 
thing  that  would  displease  him. 

When  Charles  had  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to 
Henry,  he  remarked  —  "  How  did  you  like  the  old  man's 
blowing  up  ?  " 

"  I  don't  blame  him.     We  have  both  done  wrong." 

"  He  said  but  little  to  me,  and  he'll  forget  all  about 
it  in  a  few  days.  Don't  be  so  chapfallen,  Henry." 

"  Mr.  Simonton  has  been  kind  to  us,  and  it  makes 
me  feel  unpleasant  to  know  that  he  has  had  occasion  to 
find  fault.  We  must  try  to  conduct  better  in  future." 

"  Don't  be  frightened  too  soon.     We've  done  nothing 
out  of  the  way." 
5 


50  HONESTY   AND   DISHONESTY. 

"  We  have  not  spent  our  evenings  as  we  should,  you 
know." 

"  What  harm  is  there  in  enjoying  ourselves  ?  I 
sha'n't  stay  in  the  house  for  anybody,  after  my  work 
is  done." 

"  I  shall  visit  the  shops  in Street  no  more." 

"  The  bigger  fool  you  are." 

"  There  is  one  thing  we  should  look  at,  Charles. 
While  we  disobey  Mr.  Simonton,  and  visit  improper 
places,  we  are  injuring  ourselves.  Suppose  we  continue 
in  tho  course  we  have  pursued  the  last  two  months  — 
what  will  be  the  consequence  ?  If  we  accustom  our 
selves  to  smoking,  drinking,  and  swearing,  the  habits 
will  grow  upon  us,  and  we  may  become  unprincipled 
men  and  common  drunkards.  We  should  look  a  little 
ahead." 

"  Enjoy  ourselves  while  we  can,  I  say.  This  is  what 
I  intend  to  do ;  but  you  are  at  liberty  to  become  a  dea 
con  if  you  please." 

Henry  did  not  feel  like  prolonging  the  conversation, 
but  he  was  surprised  and  grieved  at  the  language  of 
his  friend.  He  felt  that  he  had  erred,  and  was  now  re 
solved  on  a  different  course.  In  the  evening,  instead 
of  going  with  Charles,  he  visited  his  parents ;  and  when 
he  retired  to  rest,  he  felt  happier  than  if  he  had  been 
with  unprincipled  associates.  It  was  late  before  his 
friend  came  home.  He  remarked  to  Henry,  — 

"  I  have  had  a  glorious  time  this  evening.  I  never, 
in  my  life,  enjoyed  myself  better." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  not  been  in  good  company  to 
night?" 

"If  you  were  not  a  ninny,  you  might  enjoy  your 
self  too.  Henry,  why  don't  you  join  the  church  ?  " 


HONESTY   AND   DISHONESTY.  51 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Charles,  I  wish  I  was  good 
enough  to." 

"  Ha !  ha !  ha !  so  I  thought.  Well,  every  one  to  his 
taste,  I  say." 

Young  Bedford  continued  to  grow  more  unsteady, 
and  stay  out  later  at  night.  He  was  generally  cross 
and  disagreeable,  and  began  to  find  fault  with  his  com 
panion.  So  different  were  the  tastes  and  dispositions 
of  the  two  boys,  that  they  now  associated  together  but 
very  little,  except  in  the  way  of  business.  Thus  a  few 
months  passed  away.  The  leisure  time  with  Henry 
was  passed  in  reading  valuable  books,  and  in  various 
kinds  of  study,  to  improve  his  mind.  Charles  seldom 
took  a  book  or  a  paper  into  his  hands.  Mr.  Simonton 
was  still  kind  to  the  boys,  and  seldom  spoke  a  cross 
word  to  them.  "While  in  his  shop,  they  attended  to  the 
business,  and  every  thing  seemed  to  go  on  prosperously. 
One  day,  as  Henry  was  sitting  at  the  dinner  table  alone 
—  having  been  detained  at  the  store  later  than  usual  — 
Sarah  Simonton,  his  master's  eldest  daughter,  a  girl 
about  eleven  years  of  age,  came  running  into  the  room, 
and  spoke  to  Henry  — 

"  Pa  has  lost  some  money,  and  you  have  taken  it." 

"  What  is  it  ? "  anxiously  inquired  the  boy. 

"  You  have  been  taking  some  money  from  his  drawer 
at  the  shop." 

That  moment  the  girl's  mother  came  into  the  room, 
and  took  her  out,  leaving  Henry  astonished  beyond 
measure.  He  knew  that  he  was  innocent  of  the  charge 
of  theft,  and  without  half  eating  his  dinner  he  has 
tened  to  the  shop.  Mr.  Simonton  being  alone,  Henry 
stated  to  him  what  his  daughter  had  said. 

"  It  is  true,  Henry,  that  I  have  lost  several  dollars 


52  HONESTY  AND  DISHONESTY. 

of  late,  and  it  is  unaccountable  to  me  where  it  has 
gone.  Last  evening  I  called  Charles  to  me,  and  made 
inquiries,  but  I  could  learn  but  very  little  from  him. 
Have  you  seen  Charles  with  money  of  late  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  have  not." 
•    "  Have  you  had  any  money  ?  " 

"  The  last  I  had  was  the  three  dollars  you  let  me 
have  a  week  ago  last  Saturday." 

"  Have  you  the  bills  now  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  have  but  fifty  cents  in  the  world." 

Upon  his  stating  thus,  Mr.  Simonton  took  him  into 
his  counting-room,  with  Charles,  who  had  just  entered 
the  store.  Being  seated,  Mr.  Simonton  inquired  of 
Charles,  — 

"  Did  you  not  tell  me  that  Henry  had  some  money  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir  —  I  thought  I  saw  him  put  some  bills  in  his 
trunk  the  other  night." 

"  It  is  a  mistake,  Charles,"  said  Henry ;  "  I  have  had 
no  money  since  the  three  dollars  Mr.  Simonton  gave  me 
a  little  while  ago,  and  my  mother  bought  me  some 
things  with  the  money." 

"  What  made  you  think  you  saw  him  have  money, 
Charles  ?  " 

"  I  saw  him  put  something  into  his  trunk,  and  I  had 
no  doubt  it  was  money,  but  I  may  have  been  mistaken." 

"  Now  tell  the  truth,"  said  Mr.  Simonton,  turning  to 
Henry  —  "  have  you  not  money  in  your  trunk  ?  " 

"  Not  but  fifty  cents,  sir." 

"  Have  you  any  objection  to  let  me  have  your  key 
and  look  into  your  trunk  ?  " 

"  Do  you  not  believe  me  ?    I  tell  you  the  truth." 

"  Just  loan  me  the  key  of  your  trunk." 


HONESTY  AND   DISHONESTY.  53 

"  I  have  nothing  in  my  trunk  but  what  is  my  own." 
The  boy  could  not  help  from  shedding  tears. 

By  his  reluctance  to  let  him  have  the  key,  his  master 
supposed  he  might  be  guilty,  and  insisted  on  having  the 
key. 

"  Well,  sir,  you  may  take  it ;  but  you  will  find  that  I 
have  not- been  dishonest  or  deceived  you." 

Mr.  Simonton  took  the  key,  and  went  directly  to  the 
house.  He  opened  Henry's  trunk,  and,  after  looking 
a  moment  or  two,  stowed  away  in  one  corner,  he  found 
a  one-dollar  bill.  With  more  grief  than  anger,  he 
locked  the  trunk,  and  took  the  bill  with  him  to  the 
shop. 

Calling  Henry  into  his  room,  he  said  — 

"  I  am  pained  to  the  heart  to  find  that  you  have  de 
ceived  me." 

"  Deceived  you  I  have  not." 

"  Do  not  add  lying  to  dishonesty,  I  beg  of  you.  It 
will  be  worse  for  you  in  the  end.  It  is  better  to  ac 
knowledge  the  whole. '; 

"  I  have  nothing  to  acknowledge,"  and  the  boy  wept 
aloud. 

"  I  found  this  bill  in  your  trunk,"  holding  it  in  his 
hand. 

"  Then  it  was  put  there  without  my  knowledge." 

"  Henry,  I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  talk  so.  For  the 
last  few  months,  I  have  put  the  utmost  confidence  in 
you.  You  remember  your  promise  to  me,  when  I  con 
cluded  to  keep  you,  and  say  nothing  about  the  former 
affair  ?  but  I  must  dismiss  you  now." 

"  Say  not  so  —  it  will  ruin  me." 

"  I  have  tried  you,  after  I  found  you  not  to  be  trust 
worthy,  and  this  is  my  reward.  I  regret  you  have  done 
5* 


54  HONESTY  AND  DISHONESTY. 

this,  but  I  cannot  keep  you  longer.  You  may  take 
your  trunk  from  the  house,  and  go  home  to  your  father." 

With  his  handkerchief  to  his  eyes  Henry  left  the 
store,  and  went  directly  to  his  mother.  He  told  her  the 
whole  affair,  amid  sobs  and  tears. 

"  Never  mind,  my  son,"  said  she  ;  "  the  really  guilty 
person  will  be  detected  at  last.  It  is  hard  to  be  ac 
cused  of  dishonesty,  but  it  will  be  best  not  to  say  a 
word  about  it.  Mr.  Simonton  is  wealthy  and  we  are 
poor,  and,  if  he  were  disposed,  he  could  injure  us  a 
great  deal ;  but  he  is  deceived.  By  and  by,  when  he 
knows  who  is  the  really  dishonest  person,  he  will  not 
hesitate  to  do  justice  by  you.  Dry  your  tears,  and  for 
the  present  you  can  assist  me  about  the  house.  Per 
haps  you  can  find  a  good  opening  in  the  course  of  a  few 
weeks." 

Mr.  Jones  exceedingly  regretted  what  had  happened, 
when  he  came  home  to  his  dinner,  but  he  whispered 
not  a  word  of  reproach  against  his  son  or  his  master. 
Like  a  Christian  philosopher,  he  remarked, — 

"  Never  mind,  my  boy,  innocence  will  be  vindicated 
in  the  end,  while  crime  alone  will  be  punished.  Dwell 
not  on  the  unhappy  circumstance,  but  be  happy  at 
home,  till  you  can  obtain  another  place.  It  will  turn 
out  right  in  the  end.  Your  motto  always  has  been, 
*  Look  on  the  bright  side.' " 

When  Henry  took  his  trunk  away  from  Mr.  Simon- 
ton's,  he  went  into  the  parlor  to  bid  Mrs.  Simonton  and 
her  daughter  good-by,  but  they  took  no  notice  of  him. 
A  tear  in  his  eye  told  how  keenly  he  felt  the  slight. 

"  But  I'll  not  mind  it,"  he  said,  as  he  brushed  the 
tear  from  his  cheek. 

In  a  few  days  he  met  Charles. 


HONESTY  AND  DISHONESTY.  55 

"  What  a  fool  you  was,"  said  he, "  to  leave  that  monej 
in  your  trunk.  You  might  have  known  the  old  man 
would  find  you  out." 

"  I  didn't  put  the  money  there,  and  you  know  it." 

"  I  know  it  ?     Tell  me  that  again  if  you  dare ! " 

Henry  made  no  reply  and  passed  on. 

It  was  not  long  before  young  Jones  obtained  another 
situation.  He  went  into  the  store  of  a  gentleman,  who, 
liking  his  appearance,  asked  him  if  he  did  not  wish  for 
a  place  in  his  establishment.  Henry  was  pleasantly  sit 
uated  with  Mr.  Roberts,  and  gave  perfect  satisfaction  to 
his  employer.  He  was  attentive  to  his  business,  and 
took  care  to  improve  the  spare  moments  of  his  time. 

Henry  had  been  in  his  new  situation  about  four 
months,  when  he  received  a  request  from  Mr.  Simonton 
for  him  to  call  and  see  him  at  his  house,  on  the  follow 
ing  evening.  Without  hesitation,  Henry  called  on  his 
old  master.  When  he  was  seated,  Mr.  Simonton  and 
he  being  alone  in  the  room,  the  former  remarked, — 

"  You  may  think  it  strange  that  I  have  sent  for  you, 
Henry,  but  I  must  tell  you  that  I  have  done  injustice  to 
you.  Until  very  recently,  I  believed  that  you  were  dis- 
"lonest  and  lied  to  me.  My  opinion  is  now  changed. 
Charles  I  believe  to  be  the  villain.  I  have  missed 
money  at  various  times,  and  a  few  days  ago  I  accused 
him  of  being  the  thief;  and  I  think  I  had  sufficient 
proof  of  his  guilt ;  but  he  used  very  insulting  language 
to  me,  and  during  the  day,  took  away  his  trunk,  and 
went  to  the  south,  as  I  understand,  in  a  steamboat  that 
evening.  Since  then  I  have  found  that  he  was  very  dis 
honest.  I  have  lost  more  than  a  little  by  him.  Henry, 
I  am  sorry  I  treated  you  so  unkindly.  I  think  you  told 
me  the  truth." 


56  HONESTY  AND   DISHONESTY. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  what  I  said  at  the  time,  was  what  I  be 
lieved  to  be  the  truth.  I  never  could  tell  how  that 
money  came  into  my  trunk." 

"  From  what  I  have  learned  of  Charles,  I  have  no 
doubt  that  he  opened  your  trunk  and  put  it  in." 

"  I  cannot  believe  that  he  would  have  done  it." 

"  There  is  no  doubt  in  my  own  mind.  It  has  always 
been  a  rule  with  me,  when  I  have  wronged  another,  in 
tentionally  or  otherwise,  to  ask  his  forgiveness ;  and  it 
is  my  duty  to  ask  yours,  for  I  have  seriously  injured 
you." 

"  Say  nothing  about  it,  sir.  "With  all  my  heart  I  for 
gave  you  a  long  time  ago.  I  knew  you  had  a  wrong 
impression,  and  hoped  the  time  would  come  when  the 
real  offender  would  be  detected." 

"  Another  thing  I  wish  to  say  to  you.  I  should  be 
pleased  to  have  you  come  and  reside  with  me  again. 
If  you  are,  not  engaged  for  any  length  of  time  with 
Mr.  Roberts,  and  will  come  with  me,  I  will  do  well  by 
you." 

Henry  thanked  Mr.  Simonton,  and  as  he  was  always 
pleased  with  the  general  treatment  he  received  while 
he  remained  with  him,  he  concluded  to  go  with  him 
again.  His  present  master  regretted  to  have  him  leave, 
but  finally  gave  his  consent,  and  Henry  was  once  more 
in  the  employ  of  his  old  master. 

No  man  could  be  more  kind  to  another  than  was  Mr. 
Simonton  to  Henry.  He  treated  him  as  a  son,  and  fa 
vored  him  in  a  thousand  ways. 

Young  Jones  remained  with  his  kind  master  till  he 
became  of  age,  and  soon  after,  he  was  taken  into  equal 
copartnership  with  him.  The  firm  of  Simonton  and 
Jones  did  as  much  business  in  their  line  as  any  two 


HONESTY  AND  DISHONESTY.  57 

firms  in  the  place.  For  moral  worth  and  sterling  in 
tegrity,  no  men  in  the  community  stood  higher.  They 
dealt  fairly  and  honorably  with  all,  and  were  perfectly 
free  from  those  contracted  views  and  mean  contrivances 
that  make  so  many  detested  and  abhorred. 

In  a  few  years,  Henry  had  acquired  some  little  prop 
erty,  and  in  a  pleasant  part  of  the  town,  he  built  him 
a  neat  and  commodious  house.  "When  his  dwelling 
was  completed,  he  married  Sarah,  the  daughter  of  Mr. 
Simonton,  than  whom  a  kinder  and  more  agreeable 
young  woman  could  nowhere  be  found.  She  was  well 
calculated  to  make  him  happy  —  and  two  more  con 
genial  hearts  probably  never  came  together. 

Mr.  Jones  had  been  in  business  something  like  six 
years,  when  he  took  a  journey  to  the  south,  partly  for 
business  and  partly  for  pleasure.  Among  other  states 
he  visited,  he  went  to  Louisiana,  and  spent  several 
weeks.  One  day,  in  New  Orleans,  he  saw  several  per 
sons  gathering,  and  inquiring  the  cause,  he  was  told 
that  a  thief  had  just  been  placed  in  the  pillory.  On  his 
head  was  a  paper  cap  on  which  was  printed,  in  large  let 
ters,  the  word  volense.  Henry  thought  the  countenance 
of  the  felon  was  familiar,  and  in  a  moment  it  struck  him 
that  it  was  his  old  companion,  Charles  Bedford.  He  could 
not  be  mistaken  —  it  was  he.  But  the  marks  of  degrada 
tion  were  on  his  person.  He  had  the  appearance  of  a  man 
of  forty-five,  when  in  fact  he  was  not  more  than  thirty. 
A  tear  or  two  struggled  down  the  cheek  of  Henry  as  he 
gazed  upon  the  miserable  man.  On  the  breast  of  the 
thief  was  a  placard,  upon  which  his  crime  and  sentence 
were  written.  He  had  been  stealing,  and  was  to  stand 
in  the  pillory  one  hour,  and  then  receive  twenty  lashes. 
Henry  waited  and  saw  the  punishment  inflicted  upon  tho 


58  HONESTY   AND   DISHONESTY. 

person  of  the  young  man,  nearly  every  blow  of  the 
whip  drawing  blood  with  it.  Though  a  painful  sight, 
he  remained  till  he  saw  the  poor  fellow  removed  for  the 
dressing  of  his  wounds. 

That  day  Henry  called  upon  him,  but  he  found  him  a 
miserably  wicked  and  polluted  being.  Without  at  first 
making  himself  known,  he  remarked  — 

"  My  good  friend,  what  has  brought  you  to  this  con 
dition  ?  —  if  I  may  ask  you  the  question." 

"Intemperance  and  dishonesty.  I  have  brought  it 
all  on  myself." 

"There  is  a  chance  for  your  reformation  —  why  not 
forsake  the  bowl  ?  " 

"  Sir,  I  am  too  far  gone,  now ;  I  am  houseless  and 
friendless." 

"  None  are  beyond  the  reach  of  hope,  while  they  can 
move  and  breathe.  You  may  yet  be  a  man  again." 

Seeing  him  in  much  pain  from  his  chastisement, 
Henry  left  him,  promising  to  call  again  in  a  day  or  two. 
But  feeling  a  sympathy  for  the  poor  fallen  wreck  of  hu 
manity,  the  next  day  he  was  at  his  side,  with  some  tri 
fles  he  had  bought  for  his  nourishment.  The  unhappy 
man  appeared  exceedingly  grateful,  and  thanked  Henry 
with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  Who  am  I  indebted  to  for  this  kindness  ?  "  inquired 
he. 

"  I  am  a  stranger  in  this  place." 

"  Sir,  I  can  never  forget  you.  No  other  person  but 
yourself  has  shown  me  any  pity.  I  have  done  wrong, 
I  know.  Once  I  might  have  been  something.  I  com 
menced  early  a  career  of  folly ;  but  I  knew  not  the  bit 
ter  consequences  till  now." 

"  You  are  not  now  too  old  to  reform.      Give  me  your 


HONESTY  AND   DISHONESTY.  59 

word  that  you  will  from  this  time  cease  to  drink  ardent 
spirits,  and  become  a  reformed  man,  and  I  will  see  what 
I  can  do  for  you." 

"  Sir,  your  kindness  astonishes  me.  Can  I  have  one 
friend  in  the  world?  Is  there  yet  hope  for  me?  0 
sir"  —  and  tears  checked  his  utterance. 

"  You  have  a  friend  in  me,  if  you  will  do  your  duty." 

"  I  will  try  to  with  all  my  heart." 

"  There  is  one  gentleman  in  New  Orleans  with  whom 
I  am  acquainted.  Upon  my  recommendation,  he  has 
agreed  to  take  you  as  a  porter  in  his  store.  If  you  are 
faithful,  steady,  and  honest,  he  will  do  well  by  you.  If 
otherwise,  I  am  to  sustain  the  loss." 

"  A  thousand  thanks,  sir !  I  will  become  a  man  again. 
Such  kindness  I  never  expected  to  see.  Sir,  what  may 
I  call  your  name  ? " 

"Jones  —  my  name  is  Jones." 

"  Jones,  did  you  say  ?  "  and  the  poor  fellow  looked 
up,  astonished  beyond  measure.  "  I  once  knew  a  per 
son  by  that  name  —  a  fine  little  fellow,  too  —  would  that 
I  had  been  like  him  —  but  I  wronged  him"  —  and  the 
tears  continued  to  flow.  "  I  will  tell  you  what  I  did : 
I  led  him  away  from  virtue.  God  forgive  me !  — I  took 
money  from  our  employer ;  for  we  lived  with  the  same 
man  —  and  to  screen  myself  I  placed  a  bill  in  his  trunk 
—  wretch  that  I  was  —  and  our  master  dismissed  him 
as  a  thief.  How  can  I  be  otherwise  than  miserable, 
when  I  treated  a  kind,  honest,  and  virtuous  youth  in 
this  manner?  What  has  become  of  him,  I  do  not 
know,  but  I  trust  he  is  yet  virtuous  and  happy,  while  I 
am  miserable  and  wretched.  You  are  no  relation  to 
this  Jones,  who  lived  in  a  distant  state  ?  " 

"  I  know  him  well." 

"  You  astonish  me." 


60  HONESTY  AND  DISHONESTY. 

"Charles,  without  longer  deceiving  you,  I  am  the 
very  person !  Don't  you  know  me  ?  " 

"  True  as  I  live,  it  is  he  "  —  and  it  was  some  time  be 
fore  he  could  speak  —  while  the  tears  gushed  in  torrents 
from  his  eyes.  "  Henry,  my  benefactor  and  friend,  for 
give  me !  oh,  forgive  me !  " 

"  My  dear  fellow,  you  have  long  been  forgiven.  I 
never  harbor  an  unkind  feeling  in  my  heart,  against 
a  fellow-creature." 

For  an  hour  they  conversed  together,  and  each  re 
lated  the  history  of  his  past  life.  Charles  had  suf 
fered  every  thing  but  death.  He  had  been  degraded 
and  miserable  in  the  extreme.  Several  times  had  he 
been  imprisoned  for  his  dishonesty.  But  now  by  the 
kindness  of  his  friend  he  resolved  to  reform,  and  before 
Henry  left  the  place,  he  saw  him  pleasantly  situated  in 
a  store,  where,  if  he  should  prove  faithful,  the  prospect 
of  a  good  living  and  something  more  was  before  him. 

Henry  returned  to  his  native  place  after  an  absence 
of  one  or  two  months,  and  continued  to  prosper  in  his 
business.  He  occasionally  received  letters  from  Charles, 
who  had  faithfully  kept  his  promise,  and  become  an  al 
tered  man.  The  last  time  he  heard  from  him,  he  had 
been  promoted  to  chief  clerk  in  the  establishment,  and 
was  about  taking  to  himself  a  wife. 

We  have  but  little  to  add  to  our  story.  Though  vir 
tue  for  a  time  may  be  cast  down,  yet  will  she  triumph 
at  last.  All  should  remember  this  fact,  and  let  nothing 
keep  them  from  the  path  of  duty. 

Kindness  will  work  wonders  in  the  human  heart. 
When  a  man  errs,  reproach  him,  and  you  drive  him 
further  from  virtue ;  but  be  kind ;  persuade  and  encour 
age  him,  and  you  change  his  heart  and  save  a  soul  from 
ruin. 


TEN  THOUSAND  DOLLARS. 


However  dark  the  cloud  may  be 

That  lingers  o'er  your  head  — 
Bear  up  —  beyond  the  cloud  you'll  see 

Bright  fields  of  sunshine  spread. 

DOROTHY  HENDERSON  was  the  daughter  of  a  farmer 
who  lived  in  Scarborough.  Her  parents  owned  the  farm 
on  which  they  lived ;  but  as  it  was  partly  on  a  ledge 
and  the  land  poor,  it  was  only  by  the  strictest  economy 
that  they  made  a  comfortable  living.  In  the  fall  of  the 
year  Mr.  Henderson  would  carry  produce  to  the  Port 
land  market,  the  proceeds  of  which  enabled  him  to  ob 
tain  the  dry  and  West  India  goods  that  were  used  in 
the  family.  As  Dorothy  grew  older,  she  was  of  much 
assistance  to  her  mother  in  milking  the  cows,  churning 
the  butter,  and  the  like.  Although  she  was  not  hand 
some,  the  farmer's  daughter  was  of  an  amiable  disposi 
tion,  industrious  and  attentive  to  the  duties  of  the  lit 
tle  farm.  Not  living  in  the  neighborhood  of  fashion, 
Dorothy  was  not  injured,  either  in  body  or  mind,  by  its 
fascinating  influence.  She.  grew  up,  as  nature  designed 
her,  and  was  therefore  healthy  and  happy.  When  she 
was  about  nineteen  years  of  age,  her  father  took  to 
board  the  schoolmaster  of  the  district,  a  man  prepos 
sessing  in  his  appearance  and  well  calculated  to  win  the 
6 


62  TEN  THOUSAND  DOLLARS. 

heart  of  a  young  woman.  He  was  extremely  partial  to 
the  daughter,  and  occasionally  took  her  with  him  to  Port 
land,  where  he  had  friends.  The  parents  of  Dorothy 
were  delighted  with  the  schoolmaster,  and  fondly  cher 
ished  the  hope  that  at  some  future  day  he  would  become 
their  son-in-law.  The  daughter,  however,  was  less  pleased 
with  him  than  her  parents  were,  and  treated  him  kindly, 
as  a  friend  and  nothing  more.  She  did  not  wish  to  con 
sider  him  in  any  other  light  than  that  of  an  acquaint 
ance.  There  was  a  young  man  in  the  neighborhood, 
by  the  name  of  James  Smith,  with  whom  she  had  been 
intimate  from  childhood.  He  was  quite  poor  but  per 
fectly  upright  and  honest.  It  was  evident  that  James 
was  attached  to  Dorothy,  but  his  modesty  and  his  pov 
erty  prevented  his  avowing  his  passion ;  and  it  was  only 
as  a  neighbor  that  he  occasionally  called  at  the  house 
of  Mr.  Henderson.  But  when  James  saw  the  move 
ments  of  Mr.  Hobson  the  schoolmaster,  his  feelings 
were  such  that  we  cannot  describe.  He  had  cherished 
the  hope  for  many  years,  that  Dorothy,  at  some  future 
period,  might  become  his  wife,  although  to  no  one  had 
lie  made  known  the  feelings  of  his  bosom.  Had  he 
be.en  made  acquainted  with  the  heart  of  the  young  wo 
man,  he  would  have  had  no  trembling  fears  when .  he 
saw  the  attentions  paid  to  her  by  Mr.  Hobson. 

One  afternoon,  as  Dorothy  and  her  mother  were  at 
work,  one  of  the  neighbors  called  in  to  spend  a  few 
hours.  She  brought  her  knitting-work  with  her,  as  is 
usual  in  the  country,  so  as  not  to  pass  any  idle  moments. 
After  conversing  on  various  topics,  the  name  of  the 
schoolmaster  was  introduced. 

"Mr.  Hobson  appears  to  be  an  excellent  teacher," 
remarked  tlie  neighbor. 


TEN  THOUSAND  DOLLARS.  63 

"  He  is,  indeed,"  said  the  mother,  "  and  a  fine  man  in 
every  respect." 

"  I  see  he  is  very  partial  to  Dorothy,"  giving  her  a 
particular  look. 

"  As  to  that  I  cannot  say.  She  has  been  to  Portland 
with  him  once  or  twice ;  but  it  may  be  on  account  of 
his  boarding  with  us." 

"  There  must  be  something  else  in  the  wind,  I  know  ; 
is  there  not,  Dorothy  ?  "  addressing  the  young  woman. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Mrs.  Stacy  ?  " 

"  Why,  don't  you  think  highly  of  the  schoolmaster  ?  " 

"  As  a  friend  I  like  him ;  I  could  not  do  otherwise, 
for  he.  has  always  been  kind  to  me." 

"  That's  it,  and  you  intend  to  marry  liim  ?  " 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Stacy,  you  know  better  than  to  talk  so. 
I  wouldn't  marry  him,  feeling  as  I  now  do,  if  he  were 
worth  as  much  as  Captain  Clapp  or  Matthew  Cobb." 

"Dorothy,  mind  what  you  say,"  said  her  mother. 
"  Always  speak  the  truth." 

"  That  is  the  truth,  mother.  As  true  as  I  live,  it  is 
the  truth." 

"  Nonsense,  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Stacy,  "  you  would  have 
him  in  a  moment.  I  have  heard  girls  talk  before." 

"Mr.  Hobson  is  a  gentleman,  every  inch  of  him," 
said  the  mother,  "  and  I  should  think  myself  lucky  to 
have  my  daughter  obtain  so  good  a  husband  as  he  will 
make.  But  I  don't  expect  any  such  thing." 

"  If  that  should  happen,  it  would  not  be  strange  at 
all,"  remarked  Mrs.  Stacy.  "  Girls  in  love  always'talk 
like  your  daughter  —  that  we  all  know." 

"  In  love,  Mrs.  Stacy !  —  it  is  strange  you  talk  so. 
You  know  better.  I  care  no  more  about  Mr.  Hobson 
than  I  do  for  your  husband ;  believe  it  or  not." 


64  TEN  THOUSAND  DOLLARS. 

"  We'll  see  what  a  few  months  will  bring  forth.  I 
know  what  young  women  are.  You  can't  deceive  me." 

"  Nor  do  I  wish  to.  I  have  no  secret  to  keep,  and  de 
sire  only  to  tell  the  plain  truth." 

At  this  moment  the  schoolmaster  came  in,  and  hap 
pened  to  take  a  seat  next  .to  Dorothy.  Upon  this,  Mrs. 
Stacy  gave  a  knowing  look  to  Mrs.  Henderson,  and 
touched  her  with  her  elbow,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  What 
I  said  was  true  —  look  for  yourself." 

"  A  fine  day,  Mr.  Hobson,"  said  Mrs.  Stacy,  as  soon 
as  he  was  fairly  seated. 

"  Beautiful,"  the  schoolmaster  remarked,  stretching 
his  legs. 

"  What's  the 'news  to-day  ?  " 

"  I  don't  hear  of  any  thing  at  all.  I  just  saw  Dick 
Parsons,  who  came  from  Portland,  and  he  says  hay 
brings  a  good  price." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  that.  When  are  you  going  to 
.Portland  again?"  and  she  touched  Mrs.  Henderson 
with  her  elbow. 

"  In  a  few  days,  ma'am." 

"  I  suppose  you  will  take  Dorothy  with  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  y-e-s  —  I  suppose  so." 

"  She'll  be  pleased  to  go,  no  doubt." 

"  You  had  better  take  Mrs.  Stacy  next  tune,"  Doro 
thy  remarked ;  "  I  think  it  would  be  highly  gratifying  to 
her." ' 

"  Well,  she  may  go  if  she  pleases." 

"  Dorothy  would  cry  her  eyes  out,  if  I  should." 

"Perhaps  I  should;  try  it,  ma'am.  You  go,  and 
we'll  see  what  effect  it  has  upon  me." 

"  I'll  see  about  it." 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  appearance 


TEN  THOUSAND  DOLLARS.  65 

of  Mr.  Henderson,  who  had  come  home  to  tea,  after  his 
day's  labor.  It  was  not  long  before  they  all  partook  of 
the  supper  prepared  by  Dorothy  —  soon  after  which  Mrs. 
Stacy  took  her  departure.  Mrs.  Stacy  was  a  distant  rela 
tive  of  James  Smith,  whom  we  have  mentioned  before. 

James  was  a  constant  visitor  at  the  house  of  Dorothy ; 
but  —  poor  fellow!  —  he  noticed  that  since  the  school 
master  had  boarded  at  the  house,  the  parents  of  the 
young  woman  were  not  as  social  and  as  agreeable  as 
formerly.  The  reason  he  suspected,  but  he  hinted  not 
a  word.  Hobson  himself  seemed  to  take  particular 
pains  to  treat  him  with  contempt,  and  often  in  the  pres 
ence  of  Dorothy  and  her  parents,  took  occasion  to  speak 
disrespectfully  of  the  young  man.  He  would  ridicule 
his  dress,  his  manners,  and  his  awkward  appearance ; 
but  Dorothy  usually  resented  it  and  would  speak  in  the 
highest  terms  of  her  friend. 

"  There  is  not  a  better-hearted  young  man  in  town 
than  he,"  she  remarked  to  the  schoolmaster  one  day. 

"  Perhaps  he  is  a  fine  fellow,  but  what  does  he 
know  ? "  inquired  Mr.  Hobson. 

"  More  than  he  appears  to  know,  that  I  can  tell  you. 
He  has  read  a  great  deal,  and  is  very  intelligent. 
There  is  not  a  sum  in  Pike's  Arithmetic  that  he  cannot 
do,  and  he  is  familiar  with  grammar." 

"  That  may  be,  and  yet  he  knows  but  little.  He  acts 
like  a  simpleton." 

"  He  has  never  been  in  much  company,  I  know,  and 
is  very  diffident.  But  I  should  rather  see  a  modest 
man  than  an  impudent  fellow  any  time." 

"  Look  at  his  appearance.  His  coat  sets  like  a  shirt 
on  a  handspike." 

"  He  is  not  able  to  dress  well,  I  know ;  but  the  coat 
6* 


66  TEN  THOUSAND  DOLLARS. 

he  wears,  was  made  by  a  fashionable  Portland  tailor,  Mr. 
Charles  Rogers,  I  believe,  and  if  it  does  not  suit  him,  the 
tailor  is  in  fault." 

"  Well,  there  is  nothing  prepossessing  about  the  fellow 
—  I  know  that." 

"  So  I  think,"  said  the  mother. 

"  Why,  mother,  how  can  you  talk  so  ?  A  few  months 
since,  you  told  me  he  was  one  of  the  best  young  men  in 
the  whole  town  of  Scarborough." 

"  But  I  have  changed  my  mind  since." 

"  James  has  not  changed.  He  is  as  industrious  as 
ever,  and  I'm  sure  he's  as  kind  hearted." 

Her  mother  made  no  reply,  and  Dorothy  was  glad  to 
drop  the  conversation.  She  now  had  a  less  favorable 
opinion  than  ever  of  the  schoolmaster.  A  day  or  two 
after,  he  invited  her  to  go  to  Portland,  but  Dorothy  de 
clined.  Her  mother,  learning  this  fact,  said,  — 

"  What  has  got  into  you,  child,  that  you  act  so 
strange?  Why  don't  you  go  with  Mr.  Hobson,  and 
thank  him  for  his  kind  invitation  ?  " 

"  For  this  simple  reason,  mother,  I  do  not  like  him." 

"Don't  like  him!  what  do  you  like,  hey?  —  why, 
there  is  not  a  girl  in  all  Scarborough,  from  Prout's  Neck 
to  Libby's  Corner,  who  would  refuse  him ;  nay,  more, 
there's  not  one,  I'll  be  bound  to  say,  who  wouldn't  es 
teem  it  a  great  favor  to  be  waited  upon  by  the  school 
master." 

'*  I  can't  help  that,  mother ;  I  cannot  go  with  him." 

"What  in  the  world  have  you  against  him? " 

"  Why,  what  he  said  about  James,  and  the  manner  in 
which  he  has  treated  him  has  made  me  dislike  him,  and 
I  was  never  very  partial  to  him,  as  you  know." 

"  I  think  you  are  unwise,  and  by  and  by  you  will 


TEN  THOUSAND  DOLLAES.  67 

regret  your  conduct.  Mr.  Hobson  is  the  son  of  a 
wealthy  man  and  at  some  future  day  will  have  property 
left  him." 

"  That  may  not  be  correct ;  but -if  it  is  true,  I  should 
not  like  him  any  better." 

"  All  you  care  about,  then,  is  that  fellow,  Jim,  with 
not  a  cent  in  the  world,  and,  who,  from  present  appear 
ances,  will  never  be  worth  a  second  shirt  to  his  back. 

"  That  James  is  a  fine  young  man,  I  cannot  doubt. 
"With  all  his  poverty,  I  would  give  more  for  him  than 
for  a  dozen  schoolmasters  like  Mr.  Hobson." 

"You  are  a  foolish  girl;  you  talk  more  like  Coot 
Moody  than  ever  I  heard  a  female  before." 

"  I  speak  as  I  think,  and  I  cannot  help  it.  As  for 
going  with  Mr.  Hobson  to  Portland,  I  shall  not  do  it." 

"  If  you  will  be  so  foolish,  you  must  take  the  conse 
quences." 

"  In  the.  end,  mother,  I  believe  you  will  acknowledge 
I  am  right." 

Finding  that  he  could  make  no  impression  on  the 
heart  of  Dorothy,  the  schoolmaster  treated  her  with  in 
difference  and  affected  contempt.  At  the  same  time,"  a 
keen  observer  could  have  noticed  that  he  respected  her 
in  his  heart.  After  the  three  months  had  expired,  for 
which  Mr.  Hobson  was  engaged,  he  left  the  house  of 
Mr.  Henderson  and  returned  to  Portland. 

On  account  of  Dorothy's  treatment  to  the  schoolmas 
ter,  her  parents  had  fallen  out  with  young  Smith,  and 
gave  him  to  understand  that  his  company  was  not 
agreeable  at  the  house.  But  lovers  will  meet,  and  many 
a  happy  interview  did  they  have.  At  the  house  of  a 
distant  relative  of  James,  Capt.  Moses  Libby,  they  of- 


68  TEN  THOUSAND  DOLLAES. 

ten  resorted  to  pass  a  pleasant  evening.  They  had  now 
made  known  their  love  for  each  other,  and"  resolved,  if 
their  lives  were  spared,  at  no  very  distant  day,  to  be 
come  man  and  wife. 

Although  the  parents  of  Dorothy  were  in  humble 
circumstances,  the  parents  of  James  were  still  poorer. 
Having  a  large  family  of  children,  Mr.  Smith  found  it 
exceedingly  difficult  to  obtain  the  necessaries  of  life. 
But  since  his  children  had  grown  up,  and  could  work 
for  themselves  and  earn  something,  he  succeeded  better. 

It  was  nearly  six  months  after  the  schoolmaster  had 
left  Scarborough,  that  James  ventured  to  call  on  Mr. 
Henderson.  Dorothy  had  assured  him  of  a  welcome 
reception.  She  supposed  that  the  old  affair  had  been 
forgotten  by  her  parents,  and  that  now  they  would  treat 
James  with  kindness  and  attention.  But  she  was  dis 
appointed.  No  sooner  was  James  comfortably  seated  by 
the  fire,  than  Mrs,  Henderson  remarked  —  addressing 
her  daughter, — 

"  There  are  some  men  who  never  seem  to  take  a  hint 
when  they  are  not  wanted." 

"  And  you  might  have  added,  mother,  some  females 
too." 

"  I  never  wish  to  make  any  uneasiness,  but  I  have  often 
said,  I  did  not  wish  you  to  invite  persons  to  the  house, 
that  were  not  agreeable  to  your  parents." 

"  You  may  as  well  say  what  you  mean  as  hint  it. 
James  and  I  can  understand  you." 

"  I  will  be  plain  with  you.  Since  you  and  James 
treated  Mr.  Hobson  with  so  much  indifference,  I  have 
not  felt  like  seeing  him,  and  have  never  wished  to  have 
him  enter  the  house."  v 


TEN  THOUSAND  DOLLARS.  69 

"  I'm  sure  James  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I  don't 
think  he  ever  spoke  .a  dozen  words  to  him.  I  thought 
by  this  time  you  had  forgotten  the  schoolmaster." 

"  I  can  never  forget  what  a  fool  you  have  been." 

Dorothy  said  no  more,  and  in  a  few  moments  left  the 
room  with  James.  The  tears  filled  her  eyes  as  she  said, 

"  You  mustn't  mind  what  mother  says ;  you  know 
my  feelings ;  we  shall  yet  be  happy." 

"  No,"  said  James ;  "  I  am  sorry  she  feels  so,  but  it 
would  be  of  no  use  for  me  to  say  a  word.  It  would 
only  make  the  matter  worse.  If  I  were  you,  I  would 
not  mention  the  subject  to  her  after  I  am  gone." 

"  I  shall  not.  I  am  glad  you  take  it  so  philosophi 
cally." 

In  a  few  moments,  James  started  for  his  home,  and 
Dorothy  went  back  to  her  mother. 

"I'm  astonished  that  you  should  think  of  asking 
that  fellow  here,"  said  Mrs.  Henderson,  "when  you 
know  how  your  father  and  I  look  upon  him.  I  can't 
bear  the  sight  of  him." 

"Mother,  tell  me  what  he  has  done  that  you  feel  so. 
Is  he  a  rogue  and  a  villain  ?  Has  he  been  guilty  of 
theft,  or  of  any  impropriety  ?  If  you  will  point  me  to 
a  single  act  of  his,  that  would  be  condemned  by  people 
in  general,  I  will  have  nothing  to  say  to  him." 

"What  and  who  is  James  Smith?  He  is  thought 
nothing  of  by  anybody.  There  is  not  a  female  who 
would  keep  company  with  him,  if  I  may  except  Em 
Moody." 

"  You  mistake  there,  mother.  A  dozen  girls  would 
be  pleased  to  have  him,  he  is  so  amiable,  kind,  and 
industrious.  Why,  he  has  fifty  dollars  laid  by,  which 
he  has  earned  with  his  own  hands." 


70  TEN  THOUSAND  DOLLARS. 

"  Compare  him  with  Mr.  Hobson  —  a  gentleman  you 
might  have  had  for  your  husband  —  yes,  you  might 
have  had  him  —  and  his  father  is  wealthy.  But  no, 
you  treated  him  with  contempt,  while  you  received  the 
visits  of  that  good-for-nothing  Jim.  I  feel  vexed  when 
I  think  of  it,  and  have  no  patience  with  you." 

"  I  believe  Mr.  Hobson  was  not  a  good  man.  I  did 
not  like  him,  and  I  should  never  have  been  happy  in  his 
company.  Would  you  have  me  sacrifice  my  happiness 
for  money  ? " 

"  You'  didn't  know  what  you  liked.  If  you  had  kept 
company  with  Mr.  Hobson,  you  could  not  help  liking 
him,  he  was  so  amiable." 

"  I  was  with  him  more  or  less  every  day  for  three 
months,  but  disliked  him  more  and  more.  So  what 
you  say  could  never  have  taken  place.  I  never  could 
like  him." 

"  What  I  want  you  to  do  now  is,  to  have  little  to  say 
to  James." 

"  I  may  as  well  tell  you,  mother,  that  I  intend  to 
marry  him  before  many  months." 

"  What  is  that  you  say  ?" 

"  1  am  engaged  to  James." 

"  If  you  talk  so,  remember  you  can  have  no  home 
with  your  parents." 

"If  I  were  in  the  wrong  I  would  not  blame  you ; 
but  I  think  I  am  in  the  right."  - 

"  I  don't  want  to  hear  any  thing  more  on  this  sub 
ject.  Never  mention  the  name  of  Smith  to  me  again." 

So  saying,  Mrs.  Henderson  left  the  room  while  her 
daughter  remained  indulging  in  no  pleasing  reflec 
tions.  She  was  attached  to  James ;  he  was  upright  and 
generous,  industrious  and  prudent ;  and  what  more  did 


TEN  THOUSAND  DOLLAES.  71 

she  want  ?  He  was  poor,  but  that  was  a  trifle  in  her  es 
timation.  They  both  were  young,  healthy,  and  strong ; 
and  if  they  ever  should  be  united,  she  doubted  not  that 
they  could  make  a  comfortable  living. 

A  week  or  two  after  James  had  received  the  hints 
from  Mrs.  Henderson,  that  he  was  not  wanted  in  the 
house,  as  Dorothy  and  her  parents  were  sitting  by  the 
fire,  a  neighbor  dropped  in,  and  inquired  if  they  had 
heard  the  news  respecting  a  recent  bank  robbery. 

"  We  have  not,"  said  Mr.  Henderson. 

"  I  understand,"  said  the  neighbor,  "  that,  on  Satur 
day  evening  last,  the  Portland  bank  was  broken  open, 
and -bills  and  specie  to  the  amount- of  more  than  a  hun 
dred  thousand  dollars  were  taken  from  the  vault." 

"  Is  that  correct  ?  " 

"  I  believe  it  is ;  for  I  heard  it  from  a  gentleman  just 
from  Portland..  He  states  the  bank  was  entered  by 
means  of  false  keys.  The  directors  of  the  bank  have 
offered  a  reward  of  ten  thousand  dollars  for  the  recov 
ery  of  the  money." 

"  Have  they  any  suspicion  who  the  thieves  were  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.  I  heard  it  hinted  that  possi 
bly  some  of  the  money  might  have  been  brought  to 
this  town  and  secreted  in  the  woods,  and  several  people, 
in  hope  of  rewards,  will  start  to-morrow  in  search  of 
the  money." 

While  Mr.  Henderson  and  his  neighbor  were  talking, 
Dorothy  slipped  out  and  ran  down  to  Mr.  Smith's  to 
tell  James  what  she  had  heard.  She  met  him  in  the 
road  near  the  house,  and  related  the  story  of  the  great 
robbery. 

"  To-morrow,  James,"  said  she,  "  I' would  get  up  early 


72  TEN  THOUSAND  DOLLARS. 

and  hunt  the  woods,  and  if  the  money  has  been  secreted 
here,  you  may  possibly  find  it." 

"  I  will,  Dorothy ;  although  there  is  no  hope  of  such 
good  luck.  For  your  sake  I  wish  I  might  be  so  fortu 
nate  as  to  find  the  money  and  get  the  reward." 

In  a  few  minutes  Dorothy  was  with  her  parents. 

Young  Smith,  thinking  so  much  of  the  money  that 
was  stolen,  could  hardly  sleep  that  night.  He  arose 
very  early  and  went  into  the  woods,  without  making 
known  his  object  to  any  one.  Hour  after  hour  he 
searched  where  he  thought  it  at  all  probable  the  money 
might  have  been  secreted,  but  in  vain.  Being  familiar 
with  the  woods,  he  knew  almost  every  thicket,  and  every 
tree.  After  a  search  of  many  hours,  he  was  about 
giving  up  and  returning  home,  when  the  thought  struck 
him  that  there  was  yet  one  place,  where  possibly  the 
money  might  be  concealed.  He  hastened  to  the  place, 
lifted  up  the  shrubbery,  when  to  his  amazement  and  joy, 
he  beheld  the  bags  that  contained  upwards  of  a  hundred 
thousand  dollars.  What  to  do,  James  hardly  knew. 
If  he  left  the  place,  others  might  come,  and  he  lose  his 
reward.  He  waited  a  short  time,  when  he  heard  voices 
at  a  distance.  He  looked ;  they  were  strangers.  When 
they  came%up,  they  stated  that  they  were  from  Portland, 
(one  of  their  number  being  one  of  the  robbers),  and  had 
come  for  the  money.  But  luckily,  James  had  first  dis 
covered  it,  and  was  entitled  to  the  reward.  Dozens 
gathered  about  the  spot,  and  the  gentlemen  removed  the 
money,  and  carried  it  to  Portland.  Just  as  young 
Smith  was  going  home  filled  with  joy  at  his  good  luck, 
he  met  Dorothy  and  told  her  of  his  success.  Nothing 
could  exceed  her  joy  as  she  bounded  to  her  father's 


TEN  THOUSAND  DOLLARS.  73 

house.  She  resolved,  however,  not  to  mention  the  cir 
cumstance  to  her  parents,  knowing  they  would  very 
soon  hear  of  the  good  fortune  of  James. 

A  few  moments  after  she  had  been  in  the  house,  her 
father  entered  and  exclaimed,  "  James  Smith  has  found 
that  money,  and  will  be  entitled  to  ten  thousand  dol 
lars!" 

"  What !  James  found  it  ?"  said  the  mother,  "  you  as 
tonish  me !  Dorothy,  what  do  you  think  of  that  ?  " 

"I  '11  tell  you  what  I  think ;  he  will  be  a  fool,  if  he 
ever  darkens  our  doors  again." 

"  Why,  we  have  always  treated  him  well,  you  know." 

"No,  mother,  no.  It  was  only  about  three  weeks 
ago  that  you  did  the  same  as  turn  him  from  the  house, 
and  you  forbade  me  having  any  thing  to  do  with  him." 

"  You  are  wrong,  Dorothy ;  I  didn't  mean  any  thing. 
James  and  I  have  always  had  a  pretty  good  under 
standing." 

"  0  mother !  how  differently  you  talk  now.  Ten 
thousand  dollars  in  a  young  man's  pocket  makes  him 
a  gentleman.  If  it  had  not  been  for  you,  James  would 
have  shared  the  money  with  me." 

"  For  me,  child ;  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  turned  him  away,  and  forbade  my  going 
with  him  when  he  was  poor ;  now  he  is  rich,  do  you  sup 
pose  he  has,  forgotten  your  treatment  ?  I  guess  I  must 
try  to  hunt  up  the  schoolmaster." 

"Don't  be  so  foolish,  Dorothy.  I  don't  care  any 
thing  about  Mr.  Hobson." 

"  He's  a  fine  man,  and  his  father  is  rich,  you  know." 

During  the  conversation  between  the  mother  and 
daughter,  Mr.  Henderson  scarcely  spoke  a  word:  he 
knew  that  both  he  and  his  wife  had  not  treated  James 
7 


74  TEN  THOUSAND  DOLLAKS. 

as  he  deserved,  and  now  they  felt  condemned.  After  a 
moment's  pause,  he  remarked, — 

"There  is  no  mistake  about  it,  wife,  we  have  not 
treated  James  as  he  deserved.  We  knew  he  was  very 
poor,  and,  without  looking  at  his  virtues,  or  dreaming 
that  he  might  become  rich,  have  shunned  and  despised 
him,  and  fairly  driven  him  from  our  doors." 

"  That  is  a  fact,  father ;  and  not  all  my  entreaties 
would  induce  you  to  do  differently.  Now,  what  have 
we  lost  ?  Think  of  it.  A  better,  kinder,  and  a  more 
good-hearted  young  man  than  James,  cannot  .be  found. 
I  do  not  think  I  am  the  least  to  blame." 

"  I  don't  know  but  we  have  done  wrong,"  remarked 
the  mother ;  "  and  it  is  strange  we  should  have  treated 
James  so,  when  we  had  nothing  against  his  character. 
I  wish  we  could  see  him,  and  acknowledge  our  fault." 

"  That  would  not  answer,  now,"  said  the  father,  "  it 
would  look  as  if  the  change  in  his  condition  had  changed 
our  minds,  as,  indeed,  it  has." 

"  As  you  both  regret  the  course  you  have  taken  with 
James,"  said  Dorothy,  "  perhaps  it  would  be  better  for 
me  to  see  him,  and  explain  all.  If  money  has  not 
changed  his  affections,  I  shall  yet  be  his ;  and  money 
has  not,  I  know.  Had  James  a  million  of  dollars,  and 
I  were  penniless,  I  know  that  he  would  stick  by  me  to 
the  last." 

The  parents  appeared  to  be  satisfied  with  this,  and 
hoped  the  time  might  come  when  they  could  look  upon 
young  Smith  as  their  son-in-law. 

The  next  day  Dorothy  had  an  interview  with  James, 
when  she  related  the  conversation  that  had  taken  place 
between  herself  and  parents.  "  Now,"  said  he,  "  there 
will  be  no  objection  to  our  union." 


TEN  THOUSAND  DOLLARS.  75 

"  None  in  the  least,  I  trust." 

"  I  have  learned  from  the  directors  of  the  bank,  that 
I  shall  have  my  money  in  a  few  days.  The  whole  re 
ward  they  are  unwilling  to  pay,  because  one  of  the  rob 
bers  had  confessed  that  he  had  taken  the  money,  and 
was  on  his  way  to  its  place  of  concealment ;  but  I  shall 
receive  more  than  enough  to  purchase  a  fine  situation 
with  all  my  farming  utensils." 

In  the  evening  James  called  upon  Dorothy  at  the 
house.  As  soon  as  he  entered,  he  was  met  by  Mrs. 
Henderson,  who  extended  her  hand,  appearing  very 
glad  to  see  him. 

*"  I  am  rejoiced  at  your  good  luck,"  said  she ;  "  but  I 
feel  ashamed  of  the  treatment  you  have  heretofore  re 
ceived  at  our  house.  You  must  forgive  us." 

"  Say  nothing  about  the  past ;  I  never  treasured  an 
unkind  thought  in  my  heart  against  you,  and  am  as 
ready  to  forget  any  slight  I  have  received,  as  you  are  to 
ask  forgiveness.  I  always  had  the  kindest  feelings  tow 
ard  you." 

The  husband,  coming  in,  was  as  free  to  confess  his 
fault,  and  ask  the  pardon  of  James,  who,  with  the  fam 
ily,  was  melted  to  tears. 

"  James,"  at  last  said  the  father,  "  we  have  been  un 
kind  to  you  heretofore,  but  as  you  have  shown  a  kind 
and  a  Christian  spirit,  we  cannot  but  admire  your  char 
acter.  Any  thing  we  can  do  in  future  to  promote  your 
happiness,  we  shall  not  fail  of  performing." 

"  Sir,  there  is  one  request  I  wish  to  make ;  if  you 
grant  it,  I  shall  be  happy ;  it  is  your  consent  to  my 
union  with  Dorothy." 

"Nothing  could  give  us  more  pleasure.      We  shall 


76          .  TEN  THOUSAND  DOLLAKS. 

be  proud  of  calling  you  pur  son.  Dorothy,  what  say 
you  to  this  ?  " 

"  I'll  give  my  hearty  consent." 

"  And  I'll  agree  to  it,  also,"  said  the  mother. 

Never  was  there  a  pleasanter  evening  passed,  and 
.when  James  returned  to  his  home,  the  thoughts  of  Ms 
future  happy  prospects  so  engrossed  his  mind  that  he 
found  but  little  sleep. 

In  a  few  days  young  Smith  received  his  money  from 
the  directors  of  the  Portland  bank.  The  first  thing  he 
did  was  to  purchase  him  a  farm  in  the  neighborhood  on 
which  stood  a  beautiful  little  house. 

Not  many  weeks  passed  before  he  was  united  to  Dor 
othy.  Old  Parson  Bradley  was  called  upon  to  perform 
the  marriage  ceremony,  and  the  evening  passed  off 
pleasantly  and  happily.  The  couple  were  accompanied 
to  their  own  house  by  several  of  the  guests,  where,  after 
giving  them  three  hearty  cheers,  they  left  them,  and 
retired  to  their  homes. 

Some  twenty  years  after  James  had  met  'with  Ms 
good  luck,  he  was  in  Portland  on  some  business,  and 
was  called  to  the  poorhouse.  While  there,  he  saw  a 
miserable  looking  being,  who  appeared  to  be  fast  wast 
ing  away.  Struck  with  his  singular  looks,  James  ap 
proached  him  and  entered  into  conversation  with  the 
poor  creature. 

"  You  appear  to  be  very  unwell,"  James  remarked. . 

"  I  am  feeble,  and  suffer  a  great  deal." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  in  this  house  ?  " 

"  Several  years.  I  have  seen  better  days,  but  intem 
perance  has  brought  me  here,  and  here  I  shall  probably 
remain  till  I  am  carried  out." 

"  Can  the  physicians  do  nothing  for  you  ?  " 


TEN  THOUSAND  DOLLAES.  7T 

"  No,  nothing  at  all.  A  few  months  since  as  I  was 
employed  in  the  yard,  throwing  bricks  into  the  cart 
that  belongs  to  the  house,  our  overseer  spoke  to-  me  to 
do  something  else ;  but  not  understanding  him,  I  con 
tinued  my  work.  He  ran  up  to  me,  and  with  all  his 
strength  kicked  me  so  severely  that  I  fell,  in  great  ag 
ony.  I  never  suffered  in  all  my  life  so  much  as  I  did 
from  that  kick.  Now  I  cannot  work  and  the  physician 
tells  me  it  will  be  the  death  of  me.  I  cannot  inform 
you  in  what  way  I  suffer  from  the  wound ;  but  no  one 
can  tell  how  painful  it  is.  If  I  were  prepared  to  die, 
death  would  be  quite  a  welcome  visitor." 

"  What  may  I  call  your  name,  sir  ?  it  seems  to  me 
that  I  have  seen  you  before." 

"  My  name  is  Hobson." 

"  Didn't  you  teach  school  some  years  ago  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  taught  in  Gorham  once,  and  in  North 
Yarmouth,  and  also  in  Scarborough.  Afterwards  I  fol 
lowed  the  seas." 

Mr.  Smith  at  once  recognized  the  sick  man  as  Mr. 
Hobson,  but  not  thinking  it  worth  while  to  let  himself 
be  known,  after  making  him  a  trifling  present,  he  bid 
him  good-by. 

To  his  wife  and  her  aged  parents,  that  evening,  he 
related  this  circumstance,  when  the  old  lady  exclaimed, 
"  I  thought  Hobson  would  come  to  some  miserable  end, 
for  he  had  an  evil  eye  !  It  was  lucky  for  Dorothy  that 
she  had  nothing  to  say  to  him." 

A  few  months  after,  James  learned  that  poor  Hobson 
was  dead  and  buried. 

For  many  years,  Mr.  Smith  and  his  wife  lived  on 
their  farm,  enjoying  the  blessings  of  an  industrious  and 
7* 


78  TEN  THOUSAND  DOLLAES. 

virtuous  life ;  and  for  aught  we  know,  they  are  living  to 
this  day.  The  next  time  we  take  a  ride  to  Scarborough 
we  shall  certainly  inquire  for  them,  and  have  the  place 
pointed  out  to  us  where  the  hundred  thousand  dollars 
were  deposited. 


RELIC  OF  A  BELOVED  PASTOR. 


'Tis  every  day  the  heart  is  pained 

By  word,  or  look,  or  deed ; 
The  real  bliss  that  we  have  gained 

Proves  but  a  broken  reed. 

FOR  many  years  the  Rev.  Mr.  Johnson  had  been  set 
tled  over  the  church  and  society  in  R .  Being  a 

man  of  talents,  and  devoted  to  his  people,  he  was  re 
spected  and  beloved  by  his  hearers.  Around  the  sick 
bed,  in  the  social  company,  at  the  place  of  business 
— wherever  Mr.  Johnson  was  found  —  he  had  a  peculiar 
talent  for  making  himself  agreeable.  His  conversa 
tion  was  animated,  and  his  heart  warm.  Everybody 
spoke  in  the  highest  terms  of  praise  of  the  excellent 
pastor,  generous  citizen,  and  Christian  teacher. 

Among  the  warmest  friends  of  Mr.  Johnson,  were 
Deacon  Peabody  and  his  wife.  Too  much  praise  they 
could  not  bestow  upon  his  discourses.  In  their  estima 
tion,  they  were  exactly  suited  to  the  wants  of  his  large 
congregation.  Although  the  deacon  and  his  family 
were  strongly  prejudiced  in  favor  of  their  minister, 
this  partiality  was  not  a  criterion  of  their  piety.  A 

pastor,  of  a  different  persuasion,  who  resided  in  R , 

they  looked  upon  as  any  thing  but  religious.  In  their 
view,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Emerson  was  a  blind  leader  of  the 


80  RELIC   OF  A  BELOVED   PASTOE. 

blind,  and  more  fit  for  a  money-broker  than  a  preacher. 
In  the  presence  of  one  of  his  friends,  the  good  wife  re 
marked,  — 

"  I  do  not  see  how  you  can  sit  under  such  a  man  as 
that  Emerson  is." 

«  Why  not  ?    We  all  like  him." 

"  He  preaches  abominable  errors." 

"  How  do  you  know  ? " 

"  So  I  have  understood." 

"  But  did  you  ever  hear  him  preach  ?  " 

"  No,  and  I  never  want  to.  I  should  feel  guilty  if  I 
were  seen  going  to  his  church." 

"  Then  I  must  say,  ma'am,  you  are  not  a  proper  per 
son  to  judge." 

"I  believe  Mr.  Emerson  is  a  wicked  man,  and  1 
should  feel  dreadfully  to  have  him  a  near  neighbor  of 
ours." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  it,  Mrs.  Peabody,  you  lack  that 
most  essential  trait  of  Christian  character  —  charity." 

Upon  this  the  good  lady  manifested  her  displeasure 
by  leaving  the  room.  But  Mr.  Simons,  who  was  well 
acquainted  with  the  deacon's  wife,  thought  but  little  of. 
the  circumstance,  as  he  had  often  offended  her  before, 
by  similar-  plain  language. 

Mr.  Johnson  continued  to  preach  to  the  satisfaction 
and  perhaps  edification  of  his  people,  when,  to  their 
grief,  he  received  a  call  from  a  church  in  a  distant 
place  to  become  their  pastor. 

"What  will  be  the  minister's  reply?  What  will  he 
do  ?  Will  he  consent  to  leave  us  ?  "  were  prevalent  in 
quiries. 

"Nothing  will  induce  him  to  leave  R— — ,"  some 


RELIC  OF  A  BELOVED  PASTOR.  81 

said.  "  We  don't  know  about  it,"  said  others.  "  We 
are  so  united  in  him  that  it  would  be  wrong  for  him  to 
leave  us,"  said  one  and  all. 

In  a  few  days,  however,  the  conjectures  of  the  good 
people  were  silenced,  by  the  pastor  stating  to  his  friends 
that  he  believed  it  to  be  his  imperative  duty  to  leave,  as 
it  was  a  call  of  divine  Providence.  He  regretted  it 
much ;'  but  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  the  case,  and 
his  duty  to  his  family,  led  him  to  the  conclusion. 

Deacon  Peabody  and  his  wife  could  not  be  reconciled 
to  the  decision  of  their  pastor.  He  had  been  their 
friend  and  counsellor  in  prosperity  and  adversity,  in 
sickness  and  health,  and  never  failed  to  make  himself 
agreeable.  Mrs.  Peabody,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  called 
upon  Mr.  Johnson,  remarking,  — 

"  I'm  dreadful  sorry  you  are  going  to  leave  us.  Is 
your -mind  fully  made  up  ? " 

"  Yes,  ma'am ;  I  think  it  is  my  duty  to  leave  R ; 

but  I  regret  it  exceedingly.  I  have  found  many  fast 
friends  among  my  people,  and  they  nave  been  very 
kind  to  me ;  but  I  think  my  health  would  be  improved 
if  I  should  accept  the  call  and  settle  in  S ." 

"  Why  don't  you  leave  for  two  or  three  months,  and 
then  return  to  us  again,  and  not  take  your  final  leave"  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  would  be  better  for  the  church  to  release 
me  and  obtain  another  pastor." 

"  But  it  is  so  hard  to  part,  we  are  so  attached  to  you, 
and  you  have  been  with  us  so  long.  I  can't  help  cry 
ing,  when  I  think  of  your  leaving ! "  And  the  tears  be 
gan  to  flow  afresh. 

"  I  regret  exceedingly  that  necessity  compels  me  to 
leave  a  people  to  whom  I  am  so  strongly  attached ;  but 


82  RELIC   OF  A  BELOVED  PASTOR. 

when  duty  appears  plain  to  me,  it  would  not  be  right 
for  me  to  disobey." 

"  We  must  submit  to  God's  will,  although  it  is  hard ; " 
and,  continuing  in  the  like  strain  for  a  few  moments, 
Mrs.  Peabody  left  the  parsonage,  and  returned  to  her 
house. 

The  thought  of  losing  her  beloved  pastor  preyed 
deeply  on  the  mind  of  the  old  lady,  and  it  was  many 
weeks  before  she  could  feel  at  all  reconciled  to  it. 
Every  time  she  thought  of  losing  the  "  blessed  good 
man,"  as'  she  called  him,  the  warm  tears  would  fall 
from  her  cheeks ;  but  when  the  last  sabbath  came,  and 
he  was  preaching  his  farewell  sermon,  you  might  have 
heard  the  old  lady  sob  half  across  the  meeting-house. 

In  a  day  or  two  after,  the  minister  and  his  family 
took  their  departure  for  the  town  of  R .  Hun 
dreds  of  his  parishioners  called  to  bid  the  family  good- 
by  —  and  many  a  heart  was  sad. 

The  "Wednesday  following,  Deacon  Peabody  took  up 
his  daily  paper",  and  read,  among  the  advertisements, 
that  all  the  furniture  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Johnson  would 
be  disposed  of  at  auction  on  the  following  Saturday. 
Mr.  Simons  was  to  be  the  auctioneer. 

As  soon  as  the  advertisement  was  read,  "  I  declare,  I 
will  go,"  said  Mrs.  Peabody,  "  and  buy  some  article  to 
remember  Mr.  Johnson  by  —  some  little  relic  of  his." 

"  So  I  would,  wife,"  said  the  deacon.  "  Buy  a  tea-set 
or  something  else." 

"  I  will,  husband."      ;; 

Till  Saturday  came,  the  deacon's  wife  was  continually 
talking  of  the  auction,  and  occasionally  remarking, — 

"  The  best  articles  to  remember  a  faithful  pastor  by, 


RELIC   OF  A   BELOVED  PASTOR.  83 

will  be  something  he  used  in  his  family.  As  we  use  it, 
it  will  remind  us  of  the  good  old  man  and  his  faithful 
instructions." 

Early  on  the  morning  of  the  auction,  Mrs.  Peabody 
was  at  the  house  so  recently  occupied  by  her  beloved 
pastor.  She  passed  from  one  room  to  another,  exam 
ining  the  articles,  till  at  last  her  eyes  fell  upon  a  tea-set. 

"  This  I  will  purchase,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  and  use 
it  only  when  I  have  company,  so  as  to  keep  it  whole  for 
many  years." 

The  bell  rang,  and  Mr.  Simons,  the  auctioneer,-  and 
near  neighbor  of  the  deacon,  commenced  operations. 
The  articles  in  the  kitchen  were  first  sold,  every  thing 
bringing  a  good  price,  for  nearly  all  the  church  and 
congregation  were  present,  each  determined  upon  pur 
chasing  something  by  which  to  remember  Mr.  Johnson. 

Finally,  the  auctioneer  came  to  the  tea-set  —  a  com 
mon  affair, — '  ;. '  •' 

"  Ah ! "  said  he,  "  this  is  a  beautiful  set,  what  you  all 
want,  and  yet  it  will  go  for  nothing.  Examine  it  for 
jwurselves,  ladies,  and  bid  something  generous  for  it. 
Mrs.  Peabody,  this  is  just  what  you  want,"  seeing  her 
pass  through  the  crowd  to  get  another  peep  at  the  set 
— "  what  will  you  give  for  it  ?  Don't  be  afraid  to  bid, 
give  us  something." 

"  Three  dollars." 

"  Thank  you  for  a  bid,  Mrs.  Peabody,  although  it  is 
not  half  what  the  articles  are  worth.  Three  dollars  — 
three  dollars  —  three  dollars  —  who  will  give  four  ?  " 

"  Four  dollars." 

"  Four  dollars,  did  I  hear  ?  —  Yes,  four  dollars." 

"Five  dollars,"  said  Mrs,  Peabody. 

"  Five  dollars ! "  repeated  the  auctioneer, —  "  not  near 


84  RELIC  OF  A  BELOVED  PASTOR. 

its  value ! ,  Six  dollars  —  six  and  a  half —  going  — 
who  will  bid  again  ?  Seven  dollars  —  seven  and  a  half 
—  eight  dollars  —  nine  dollars  —  nine,  and  it  is  a  shame 
to  sacrifice  this  beautiful  set !  Ten  dollars  —  ten  and  a 
half —  eleven  —  eleven  and  a  half.  Only  eleven  and  a 
half — going  —  going  —  it  is  your  last  chance." 

"  Twelve  dollars,"  said  Mrs.  Peabody. 

"  Twelve  dollars  — .  going  —  going — gone !  Mrs.  Pea- 
body,  the  set  is  yours  —  cheap  enough." 

Without  stopping  to  purchase  more,  the  good  wife, 
pleased  -with  her  bargain,  went  home  to  tell  her.  hus 
band,  requesting  a  little  boy  to  bring  the  set  immedi 
ately  to  the  house. 

"  Well,  what  did  you  buy  ?  "  inquired  her  husband, 
as  she  entered  the  house. 

"A  splendid  article  —  a  beautiful  tea-set,  for  only 
twelve  dollars !  Ah,  here  it  is,"  she  exclaimed,  as  the 
boy  handed  it  in  at  the  door,  — "  here  it  is,  husband, 
this  is  what  I  bought." 

"  Did  you  give  twelve  dollars  for  this  tea-set  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  the  auctioneer  said  it  was  cheap  enough." 

"  Confound  it,  wife  —  'tisn't  worth  three  dollars ! 
Why,  I  can  go  down  town  and  purchase  a  better  article 
than  this  for  three  dollars." 

"  But,  husband,  it  belonged  to  our  minister  —  and  I 
would  give  more  than  that  for  it  on  his  account." 

"  Curse  our  minister,  I  had  almost  said." 

"  Mr.  Peabody,  don't  get  angry ;  I  thought  you  would 
be  pleased  with  the  purchase,  I'm  sure." 

"Well,  'tis  bought;  I'll  say  no  more  about  it,  and 
pay  the  bill  when  it  is  presented  —  although  it  is  so  pro 
voking.  It  is  not  more  than  a  year  since  I  sold  just  such 
a  set  as  this  to  Parson  Emerson  for  less  than  three  dollars, 


RELIC  OP  A  BELOVED  PASTOR.  85 

I'm  positive.  But  there,  we  must  make  the  best  of 
a  bad  bargain,  and  keep  it  as  a  relic  of  our  excellent 
pastor." 

"I'm  sure  it  is  an  excellent  set;  and  Mr.  Simons, 
the  auctioneer,  and  our  near  neighbor,  would  not  have 
deceived  me  so  much  as  you  think  for." 

"  I  have  heard  auctioneers  talk  before  to-day,  I  as 
sure  you." 

As  the  deacon's  wife  put  up  the  articles,  she  found 
that  several  of  them  were  cracked,  which  she  had  not 
before  observed ;  but  she  said  nothing  about  it  to  her 
husband. 

A  few  weeks  after  the  purchase,  Mrs.  Peabody  had  a 
few  select  friends  at  her  house,  and  at  supper  time  she 
placed  before  them  her  new  tea-set,  remarking,  "  This 
once  belonged  to  our  pastor,  and  on  that  account  I  value 
it  highly.  I  use  it  only  on  particular  occasions." 

All  the  ladies  admired  it,  because  they  loved  and  re 
spected  their  pastor. 

A  month  after,  the  deacon  and  his  wife  were  invited 
to  sup  at  her  neighbor's,  Mr.  Simons.  In  the  evening,  as 
luck  would  have  it,  Rev.  Mr.  Emerson  and  his  wife  came 
in.  Had  Mrs.  Peabody  known  that  Mr.  Emerson  was 
to  be  present,  she  probably  would  have  kept  at  home,  for 
of  all  ministers,  she  abominated  him.  Several  stories 
had  been  reported,  prejudicial  to  his  Christian  charac 
ter,  and  she  believed  them,  and  pretended  to  despise 
him.  However,  the  company  conversed  on  several 
subjects,  when  the  purchasing  of  articles  at  auction, 
and  the  deception  sometimes  practised,  was  mentioned. 
This  was  a  subject  in  which  the  deacon's  wife  felt  no 
particular  interest,  but  she  listened  to  hear  the  others 
converse. 

8 


86  RELIC   OP  A  BELOVED  PASTOR. 

"  Do  you  remember  my  purchasing  a  tea-set  of  you 
a  year  or  two  ago  ? "  inquired  Parson  Emerson  of  Mr. 
Peabody. 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  do." 

"  I  gave  you  three  dollars  for  it,  I  believe.  Well,  be 
ing  tired  of  it,  and,  as  part  of  it  was  cracked,  I  handed 
it  to  Mr.  Simons  to  sell  for  me.  What  do  you  suppose 
it  brought  ? " 

"How  can  I  tell?"  answered  the  deacon,  looking 
as  though  he  was  thinking  of  something  not  very  agree 
able. 

"  It  brought  the  astonishing  sum  of  twelve  dollars ! " 

Oh,  what  a  moment  for  the  deacon's  wife  ! 

"  Mr.  Simons  took  it  into  the  room  where  Rev.  Mr. 
Johnson's  articles  were  sold  at  auction,  and  it  actually 
brought  twelve  dollars  —  was  it  not  so,  Mr.  Simons?" 
appealing  to  the  auctioneer. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  It  must  have  been  a  fool  who  bought  it,"  one  re 
marked. 

"  I  think  so,  too,"  said  Mr.  Emerson.  "  It  was  not 
worth  over  two  dollars." 

"  Who  bought  it  ?  "  inquired  one. 

"  A  lady  bought  it,"  said  Mr.  Simons,  a  little  embar 
rassed,  and  he  tried  to  turn  the  current  of  the  conversa 
tion. 

In  a  few  moments  the  deacon  and  his  wife  were  on 
their  way  home. 

"  Did  not  I  tell  you,  wife,  that  the  plaguy  tea-set  you 
bought  was  not  worth  two  dollars  ?  And  it  turns  out 
to  be  the  very  set  I  sold  for  three  dollars  so  long  ago  to 
Mr.  Emerson."  * 


EELIC  OF  A  BELOVED  PASTOR.  87 

When  they  reached  the  house,  Mrs.  Peabody  hastened 
to  the  closet  to  look  once  more  at  her  tea-set. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  husband,  "  it  is  the  very  set  I  sold  so 
long  ago;  our  pastor  never  owned  it — it  was  merely 
put  into  the  room  by  the  plaguy  auctioneer  to  deceive 
people  and  bring  a  high  price." 

"  That's  a  fact,"  said  the  good  wife,  as  she  threw  a 
saucer  upon  the  floor,  smashing  it  into  a  dozen  pieces. 

"  I'll  follow  suit,"  said  the  deacon,  and  smash  went 
the  whole  set  upon  the  floor,  making  a  tremendous  noise. 

Mrs.  Peabody  never  attended  an  auction  again  —  and 
whenever  articles  that  were 'bought  as  a  bargain  at  ven- 
due,  were  shown  to  her,  she  thought  of  her  tea-set,  and 
looked  upon  them  with  a  feeling  of  contempt.  Nothing 
will  sooner  vex  the  old  lady,  than  to  ask  her  if  she  has 
any  relic  of  Mr.  Johnson,  her  beloved  pastor. 


NOT  ASHAMED  TO  WORK. 


They  wrong,  who  shrink  from  looks  alone, 

Or  from  appearance  judge  • 
Virtue  may  have  the  brightest  throne 

In  her  we  make  our  drudge. 


I 


"  Now,  mother,  I  am  eighteen  years  old,  and  as  you 
promised  me,  I  should  like  to  go  to  town  and  see  if  I 
cannot  earn  enough  to  support  me." 

"  I  know,  Hannah,  I  made  you  such  a  promise;  but  I 
was  in  hopes  you  would  give  up  the  idea  of  going  to 
P before  this  tune." 

"  I  am  more  anxious  to  go  now  than  ever.  I  think  I 
may  do  well." 

"And  you  may  be  glad  to  come  back  again.  You 
have  no  acquaintances  in  town,  and  I  know  you  will 
be  homesick.  Besides,  there  are  a  great  many  tempta 
tions  there  of  which  you  have  no  knowledge.  I  think 
you  had  better  conclude  to  remain  at  home,  for  the  win 
ter,  at  least." 

"  No,  mother,  I  insist  upon  you  fulfilling  your  promise. 
Ask  father  to  be  in  readiness  on  Monday  to  carry  me  to 
P ,  and  if  I  cannot  get  a  situation  I  will  return." 

"  "Well,  Hannah,  if  you  are  set  upon  it,  I  suppose  you 
must  go." 

Mr.  Warner  lived  in  a  country  town,  and  being  the 
owner  of  a  small  farm,  barely  made  a  living.  Having 


NOT   ASHAMED  TO  WORK.  89 

a  large  family,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  do  more 
than  clothe  them  decently  and  comfortably.  His  old 
est  daughter  had  heard  that  females  from  the  country 
could  obtain  employment  as  domestics,  and  realize  for 
their  services  from  fifty  cents  to  a  dollar  a  week.  This 
appeared  like  a  large  sum  to  Hannah,  who  had  seldom 
seen  more  than  a  few  small  pieces  of  silver  together.  As 
she  had  received  the  consent  of  her  mother  to  go  to  town, 
she  felt  happy  at  the  thought. 

It  was  soon  spread  about  the  neighborhood  that  Efan- 

nah  was  going  to  P to  live :  all  her  acquaintances 

called  upon  her  to  bid  her  good-by,  and  among  the  rest, 
Jonathan  Johnson,  the  son  of  a  farmer  in  the  vicinity, 
who  had  always  chosen  Hannah  to  escort  to  husking  par 
ties  and  Christmas  dinners,  and  for  whom  he  had  not  a 
little  partiality.  It  was  on  the  Sunday  evening  previous  to 
her  starting  for  town  on  the  following  morning  that  Jon 
athan  called  to  see  her  for  the  last  time.  As  they  sat 
together  before  the  fire,  talking  about  the  intended 
journey,  Hannah's  success,  and  like  topics,  the  lover 
remarked,  "  Now,  don't  forget  Jonathan  when  you  are 
away ,,  but  let  me  have  a  letter  as  soon  as  you  get  a 
place.  Now  you  will,  wont  you,  Hannah,  let  me  hear 
from  you  rigjit  away  ?  but  I  hate  most  awfully  to  have 
you  go  —  you  don't  know  howl  feel  about  it"  —  and 
then  he  took  from  his  pocket  a  large  cotton  handker 
chief,  which  had  not  been  opened  before  since  it  was 
ironed  by  his  mother.  After  unfolding  it  and  shaking 
it  before  the  fire,  he  put  it  to  his  eyes,  and  wiped  away 
the  big  tears  that  were  gathering  —  "  yovi  see,  how  I  feel, 
Hannah,  I  do'  so  masterly  hate  to  have  you  go  "  —  and 
then  he  took  hold  of  her  hand  and  squeezed  it. 


fc 
90  NOT  ASHAMED  TO  WORK. 

" Don't  cry,  Jonathan,"  said  the  girl,  "for  I  shall 
write  you  just  as  soon  as  I  get  a  good  situation." 

"  You  may  think  so  now,  but  among  so  many  fellows 
down  there,  you  may  forget  me,  and  how  should  I  feel ; " 
and  Jonathan  found  use  for  his  handkerchief  again. 

"  Now  don't  feel  so  bad  about  it ;  I  wont  forget  you." 

"  Wont  you,  certain  true  ?  Now,  Hannah,  jest  tell 
me,  do  you  love  me  ?  " 

The  poor  girl  blushed  —  but  it  was  an  innocent  one 
—  and  looking  up,  said,  "  You  know,  Jonathan,  without 
asking  the  question." 

"  But  I  kinder  felt  you  wouldn't  go  way  off  if  you 
cared  any  thing  about  me." 

"  You  must  not  think  so.  In  P I  can  get  from 

fifty  cents  to  a  dollar  a  week,  and  can  be  able  to  lay  by 
a  good  part  of  it ;  it  is  for  this  that  I  am  anxious  to  go." 

"  I  am  proper  sorry  you  are  going  to  go  so  soon  as 
to-morrow,  but  I  shall  expect  a  letter  right  off,  and 
don't  forget  it." 

As  it  was  getting  late,  the  lovers  thought  it  best  to 
retire.  Jonathan  took  his  hat  —  looked  grieved  to 
death,  and  turned  it  over  and  over  while  he  held,  down 
his  head ;  "  Oh,  how  I  hate  for  to  go  and  leave  you,  but 
I  s'pose  I  must ;  don't  forget  me,"  and  he  made  use 
of  his  handkerchief  again,  and  bidding  Hannah  a  good 
night,  and  a  pleasant  day's  ride  on  the  morrow,  he  was 
.on  his  way  to  his  father's  house. 

Early  on  Monday  morning,  Hannah  arose,  got  break 
fast,  and  was  ready  to  start  for  P .-  Her  mother, 

after  putting  her  bundle  in  the  wagon,  and  seeing  that 
she  had  left  nothing  behind,  said  to.  her  —  "Be  a  good 
girl,  go  into  no  bad  society,  and  obey  your  master  and 


NOT   ASHAMED  TO   WORK.  91 

mistress,  wherever  you  may  be.  If  you  are  homesick 
you  can  come  back  immediately  —  if  not,  write  home 
and  let  us  know  how  you  get  along." 

Hannah  could  not  help  weeping  as  she  bade  her  mother 
"  good-by,"  and  she  and  her  father  started  on  the  jour 
ney. 

Arriving  in  town  about  the  middle  of  the  afternoon, 
Mr.  Warner  put  up  his  horse  at  the  "  Farmer's  Tav 
ern,"  and  left  his  daughter  in  the  house,  while  he  went 
in  search  of  a  situation.  About  dark,  he  returned, 
and  informed  Hannah  that  he  had  secured  her  a  place 
for  the  present  at  fifty  cents  a  week,  and  that  she  might 
go  with  him  and  commence  her  duties. 

It  was  in  the  family  of  Mr.  Nelson  that  Hannah  went 
to  work.  She  felt  very  unpleasant  when  her  father  left 
her  alone,  and  she  almost  wished  she  had  never  left 
home.  Every  thing  was  new  and  strange  to  her ;  but 
after  learning  her  duty,  she  labored  to  perform  it  to  the 
satisfaction  of  Mrs.  Nelson  and  the  family.  At  first 
what  she  did  was  awkwardly  performed,  but  in  a  short 
time  she  learned  to  do  her  work  as  others  did,  and  she 
became  excellent  help.  For  a  week  or  two,  Hannah 
thought  a  great  deal  of  her  home,  her  friends,  and  par 
ticularly  of  Jonathan  Johnson,  but  gradually  becoming 
acquainted  with  the  family,  and  going  out  occasionally, 
she  was  more  reconciled  to  her  situation. 

She  addressed  a  line  to  her  parents  and  also  to  Jon 
athan,  expressing  herself  as  being  contented  and  happy, 
to  both  of  which  letters  she  received  an  answer.  They 
were  all  well  at  home ;  one  of  her  neighbors  was  about 
being  married,  another  had  a  new  gown,  while  her 
father's  hogs  grew  finely.  Jonathan  wrote,  that  he 
was  anxious  to  see  her  —  he  had  thought  of  her  day 


92  NOT   ASHAMED   TO   WORK. 

and  night,  and  dreamt  of  her  besides.  He  concluded 
by  expressing  his  love  for  her,  and  hoped  that  she  would 
prove  faithful  to  the  last. 

Mr.  Nelson's  family,  beside  himself  and  wife,  con 
sisted  of  two  children,  James  and  Olive  —  who  were 
about  the  age  of  Hannah.  The*  daughter  had  been 
brought  up  in  a  round  of  folly,  and  looked  upon  those 
who  worked  for  a  living  —  more  especially  upon  domes 
tics  —  as  beings  far  inferior  to  herself. 

It  was  not  often  that  she  spoke  to  Hannah,  except 
when  she  informed  her  what  to  do,  or  scolded  at  her 
for  something  that  was  not  done  exactly  to  her  liking. 
Olive  had  a  great  deal  of  company.  Her  father  was 
wealthy,  and  he  indulged  her  in  all  her  foolish  caprices 
and  desires.  He  spared  no  expense  to  please  her. 
Books  of  all  kinds  she  had  in  the  house,  but  she  seldom 
perused  them.  An  occasional  tune  on  the  piano,  a  call 
or  two,  or  the  reception  of  company,  served  to  pass 
away  the  day.  As  for  labor,  she  seldom  performed  any 
excepting  to  work  lace,  or  do  some  fine  sewing. 

Her  brother  was  of  a  'different  disposition.  He  was 
not  proud,  and  thought  it  no  disparagement  to  converse 
occasionally  with  Hannah.  •  As  she  was  a  modest  girl 
and  behaved  herself,  he  occasionally  sat  down  in  the 
kitchen  to  have  a  chat  with  her.  He  inquired  about 
her  parents,  her  friends  at  home,  the.  size  of  the  town, 
or  any  thing  to  make  conversation,  and  he  seemed 
pleased  with  the  disposition  and  the  spirit  of  the  girl. 
Olive  would  reprove  him  for  his  familiarity  with  the 
kitchen  girl,  and  tell  him  she  wished  he  had  more  re 
spect  for  himself —  more  honorable  pride ;  but  James 
would  reply  that  so  long  as  a  girl  was  industrious,  and 
behaved  herself,  whether  he  found  her  in  the  parlor  or 


NOT  ASHAMED  TO   WORK.  '93 

kitchen,  in  the  palace  or  the  hovel,  he  would  treat  her 
with  respect. 

To  speak  the  truth,  Hannah  was  a  pretty  girl  —  was 
kind  in  her  disposition,  and  given  to  no  foolish  airs. 
She  strove  to  please,  and  in  this  way  she  could  not  but 
win  the  esteem  of  the  kind-hearted.  Olive  was  plain 
in  her  person,  and  had  not  only  a  violent  temper,  but 
a  thousand  disagreeable  airs.  Her  brother,  when  he 
had  been  censured  for  his  kindness  to  Hannah,  often 
told  her,  he  wished  her  disposition  was  as  good,  her 
temper  as  even,  and  her  heart  as  humble. 

After  residing  in  the  family  of  Mr.  Nelson  for  about 
a  year,  Hannah  concluded  to  learn  a  trade,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  work  for  her  board.  She  had  no  difficulty 
in  obtaining  a  place,  although  the  family  were  sorry 
to  lose  her — if  we  may  except  Olive,  who,  on  account 
of  her  good  behavior,  and  the  attentions  she  received 
from  her  brother,  was  in  no  degree  partial  to  her.  For 
some  time  before  she  left,  Olive  had  not  spoken  a  pleas 
ant  word  to  her,  and  expressed  her  joy  when  she  left 
the  house. 

After  completing  her  trade,  Hannah  concluded  to  pay 
a  visit  to  her  parents.  She  had  seen  her  father  occa 
sionally,  since  she  had  resided  in  P — — ,  and  as  often 
as  once  a  month  received  a  line  from  him.  But  now, 
as  two  years  had  expired,  she  came  to  the  conclusion 
once  more  to  see  her  native  place,  and  converse  with 
those  kind  friends  with  whom,  so  long  ago,  she  parted. 

Starting  early  in  the  morning,  she  arrived  at  her  fath 
er's  towards  sundown.  The  family  were  rejoiced  to 
see  her  —  the  poor  mother  wept  tears  of  joy  when  she 
embraced  her  child  once  more  and  saw  by  her  looks 
that  she  was  happy,  and  heard  from  her  lips  that  she 


94  NOT   ASHAMED  TO   WORK: 

had  been  well,  and  enjoyed  herself.  She  had  brought 
her  mother  calico  for  a  new  gown,  and  several  articles 
for  her  younger  sisters,  with  which  they  were  much 
pleased.  All  the  neighbors  began  to  crowd  into  the 
house  when  they  heard  of  Hannah's  arrival,  and  asked 
her  a  thousand  questions,  all  of  which  she  answered  as 
well  as  she  was  able.  Among  all  the  neighbors  who 
had  come  to  welcome  her  home,  she  found  that  Jona 
than  Johnson  was  absent.  Hannah  was  astonished 
that  he  who  professed  so  much  regard  for  her  two 
years  ago  had  not  yet  called,  but  it  was  too  delicate  a 
question  for  her  to  inquire  respecting  him. 

The  day  after  her  arrival,  Hannah  concluded  to  call 
on  Mrs.  Johnson,  and  on  inquiring  for  Jonathan,  she 
was  informed  that  he  was  at  work  in  the  field.  "  But," 
said  the  mother  j  "  you  have  heard,  I  suppose,  that  he  is 
to  be  married  next  Sunday  to  Abigail  May  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Hannah,  greatly  surprised,  "  is  it  indeed 
so?" 

"  Yes,  and  they  are  to  board  with  us." 

"  This,"  thought  Hannah,  "  accounts  for  his  not  call 
ing  upon  me." 

She  did  not  express  any  regret,  or  censure  him  to  his 
parents,  although  she  felt  that  he  was  unworthy  of  her 
love. 

Jonathan  saw  Hannah  enter  his  mother's  house,  and 
ran  to  the  window  to  look  in,  so  as  not  to  be  observed. 
The  injured  girl  saw  him,  and  without  manifesting  any 
anger  or  displeasure,  went  to  the  window  and  called  him 
in.  When  he  saw  he  was  discovered,  Jonathan  turned 
all  manner  of  colors,  and  could  hardly  speak. 

"  Come  in,  Jonathan,"  said  the  mother,  "  come  in  and 
see  Miss  Warner,  your  old  friend." 


NOT   ASHAMED   TO  WOEK.  95 

He  came,  and  when  he  saw  her  pleasant  countenance, 
her  neat  dress,  and  heard  her  animated  conversation, 
he  would  have  given  the  world,  had  he  been  its  posses 
sor,  to  recall  the  step  he  had  taken. 

"  What  a  fool  I  am !  —  what  a  beautiful  girl !  —  how 
handsome  she  has  grown ! — how  tidy  she  looks ! "  said 
Jonathan  to  himself. 

"  Why  didn't  you  call  to  see  me  ?  "  said  Hannah,  ad 
dressing  Jonathan.  "  Didn't  you  hear  of  my  arrival  ?  " 

"I  was  going  to  call,  but  I  thought  I  wouldn't," 
said  he,  and  he  appeared  very  uneasy. 

"  Call  and  see  me  to-night,  Jonathan,  I  should  be 
happy  to  have  you." 

«  Well  —  may  be  I  will." 

As  he  did  not  seem  inclined  to  talk,  Hannah  re 
sumed  her  conversation  with  his  mother.  As  she  left, 
she  overheard  Mrs.  Johnson  say  to  her  son,  "  What  a 
fine  girl  Hannah  is !  How  far  superior  to  Abigail  May ! 
If  she  had  been  your  choice,  I  should  not  have  a  word 
to  say." 

She  saw  Jonathan  peeping  from  the  window  as  she 
passed  by.  The  moment  she  looked  up,  he  turned  his 
head  away. 

Jonathan  did  not  call  on  Hannah,  but  she  was  in 
vited  to  the  wedding  on  the  following  Sunday.  She 
went,  and  the  look  of  Jonathan  told  plainer  than 
words  could  speak,  that  he  was  unhappy.  Abigail  May 
was  half  a  head  taller  than  himself,  stooped  over,  and 
looked  any  thing  but  rieat  in  her  apparel.  But  they 
were  married,  and  the 'evening  passed  off  very  well. 
Hannah  was  not  sorry  that  she  had  got  rid  of  her  lover 
for  since  her  return,  he  seemed  to  have  grown  stupid, 
and  had  lost  his  former  ambiton.  Everybody  spoke 


96  NOT  ASHAMED  TO  WOEK. 

well  of  Hannah,  and  there  was  not  a  young  man  in  the 
village  who  would  not  have  been  glad  to  take  her  as 
his  companion. 

Hannah  had  been  at  home  but  two  or  three  weeks, 
when  one  day  a  chaise  stopped  at  her  door.  She  looked 
and  there  stood  before  her  no  less  a  personage  than 
James  Nelson,  the  son  of  the  merchant,  and  the  brother 
of  the'  proud  Olive.  After  the  usual  ceremonies  of  the 
meeting  of  two  friends,  James  was  invited  in,  and  in 
troduced  to  the  parents  of  Hannah.  By  his  pleasant 
manners,  his  freeness  of  conversation,  and  his  manly 
looks,  he  won  the  respect  and  the  love  of  the  family. 
For  a  few  days,  he  stopped  at  the  farmhouse,  and  dur 
ing  that  time,  had  made  arrangements  for  the  wedding. 
All  the  neighbors  were  surprised  at  the  good  fortune  of 
Hannah ;  but  they  said  she  was  worthy  of  as  fine  a 
man  as  ever  lived.  In  three  weeks  after,  at  her  fath 
er's  cot,  Hannah  "Warner  was  united  to  James  Nelson. 
It  was  a  happy  season  to  them  both.  Although  when 
they  became  acquainted,  one  was  comparatively  poor, 
and  in  an  humble  but  honorable  situation,  the  other 
was  the  son  of  a  rich  man,  with  bright  prospects  be 
fore  him.  But  he  was  won  by  the  virtues  of  the  heart, 
and  two  happier  souls  never  came  together.  Their  dis 
positions  and  tempers  were  alike. 

When  Nelson  took  his  wife  to  his  father's  house,  she 
was  received  with  great  kindness.  Olive  at  first  was  a 
little  offish,  but  she  soon  lost  these  feelings,  and  loved 
Hannah  as  an  only  sister.  She  regretted  her  past  con 
duct,  and  by  her  acts  of  kiridness,  her  endeavors  to 
please,  made  up  for  all  her  past  folly  and  unkindness. 

Mr.  Nelson  had  realized  a  handsome  fortune  by  in 
dustry  and  success  in  his  business,  and  now  gave  his 


NOT    ASHAMED    TO   WORK.  97 

store  and  its  contents  to  his  son,  and  retired  from  ac 
tive  life.  Prosperity  attended  his  .  steps —  as  it  always 
does  the  virtuous  and  the  diligent,  and  James  appeared 
to  be  perfectly  happy.  Once  or  twice  a  year,  Nelson 
and  his  wife  visit  her  parents,  and  spend  a  few  weeks 
in  their  society.  He  usually  carries  with  him  presents 
to  the  old  folks  and  younger  children,  and  is  so  cheerful, 
pleasant,  and  sociable,  that  his  visits  are  always  looked 
forward  to  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure. 

A  few  years  passed  away,  and  Jonathan  Johnson 
parted  from  his  wife.  He  had  become  intemperate,  and 
his  wife  was  little  better,  and  the  last  heard  from  them 
was,  that  they  were  supported  by  the  overseers  of  the 
poor. 

Mrs.  Nelson  belongs  to  one  of  the  first  families  in 
town.  She  is  industrious  and  benevolent.  She  never 
feels  ashamed  of  having  worked  in  the  kitchen,  or  of 
having  learned  a  trade,  and  whenever  she  sees  the  pert 
miss  or  the  haughty  girl,  she  does  not  hesitate  to  check 
her  pride,  and  recommend  her  to  work.  "  Be  indus 
trious,"  she  says,  "  and  you  will  succeed ;  but  nurture 
pride,  and  despise  those  who  work  for  a  support  and 
you  will  come  to  naught."  She  inculcates  these  vir 
tues  in  her  own  family,  and  you  can  always  tell  her 
children  by  their  neat  and  simple  attire,  their  modest 
behavior,  their  industrious  habits,  and  their  respect 
for  all  classes,  whether  rich  or  poor,  high  or  low,  black 
or  white.  They  have  a  smile  for  everybody,  and  every 
body  loves  them. 
9 


THE  TAILORESS. 


Cold  as  the  grave  must  be  the  heart 

That  pity  never  moves, 
Which  in  distresses  bears  no  part, 

But  self,  self  only,  loves. 

"  MOTHER,  I  think  I  will  go  to  the  shop  to-day ;  I  am 
much  better  than  I  was  yesterday ;  and  you  know  what 
Mr.  Emerson  will  say  if  I  am  absent  two  days  in  succes 
sion." 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  think  about  it,  Mary.  I  am 
afraid  you  are  not  well  enough  to  work,  and,  besides, 
it  is  rather  an  unpleasant  day  to  go  out.  You  may 
do  as  you  think  best,  however." 

"  On  the  whole,  mother,  I  think  I  will  go.  By  wear 
ing  my  thick  shawl,  I  shall  be  warm,  and  if  it  should 
storm  a  little  to-night,  there  will  be  no  danger  of  my 
taking  cold." 

"  Be  sure  and  tell  Mr.  Emerson  the  reason  of  your 
absence  yesterday,  and  I  don't  think  he  will  be  offended. 
If  it  had  been  possible  for  you  to  go  out,  you  might 
have  taken  cold  and  been  laid  up  for  a  week.  Don't 
work  too  hard,  and  remember  that  you  have  a  slender 
constitution." 

Mary  Jones  was  the  only  daughter  of  a  poor  widow. 
Her  mother  had  seen  prosperous  days,  but  losing  her 
husband  when  her  child  was  but  two  years  old,  she 


THE   TAILORESS.  99 

gradually  became  reduced  in  her  circumstances.  Mary 
was  a  dutiful  and  affectionate  girl,  ever  attentive  to  the 
wants  of  her  mother.  She  possessed  a  feeble  frame,  and 
it  was  only  by  taking  particular  care  of  herself  that  she 
was  enabled  to  enjoy  a  comfortable  degree  of  health. 
At  the  age  of  seventeen,  she  obtained  her  mother's  con 
sent  to  work  in  a  shop,  and  learn  the  trade  of  a  tailor. 
She  was  induced  to  take  this  step  on  account  of  the 
extreme  poverty  of  her  parent.  "  You  know,  mother," 
said  she,  "  that  you  are  not  able  to  support  me  without 
working  very  hard  yourself,  and  as  you  are  often  un 
well,  after  a  day's  labor,  I  am  afraid  that  you  will  not 
long  be  able  to  do  any  work.  If  I  could  learn  a  good 
trade,  and  have  constant  employment,  I  might  be  able 
to  earn  enough  to  support  us  both,  without  your  being 
obliged  to  go  out  to  wash,  or  take  in  work.  Then  we 
could  enjoy  ourselves  and  have  all  the  necessaries  and 
comforts  of  life." 

Mary  did  not  think  of  her  own  feeble  constitution, 
when  the  idea  of  learning  a  trade  first  presented  itself 
to  her  mind ;  and  when  she  obtained  her  mother's  con 
sent,  it  was  a  happy  day  to  her.  She  looked  forward 
to  the  time  when  she  should  be  able  to  earn  her  own 
living  and  support  her  aged  mother,  while  neither 
should  suffer  for  the  necessaries  of  life.  Full  of  spirits 
she  visited  the  various  tailor  shops  in  town,  and  at 
last  engaged  a  situation  at  Mr.  Emerson's  on  these  con 
ditions  :  to  work  twelve  months  in  acquiring  the  trade, 
in  the  mean  time  finding  her  own  support ;  at  the  ex 
piration  of  which  period  she  was  to  be  employed  on 
wages.  The  appearance  of  the  mechanic  was  not  al 
together  prepossessing,  in  Mary's  estimation.  He  was 
particular  to  tell  her  what  he  should  expect,  and  among 


100  THE   TAILORESS. 

other  requirements,  she  must  be  at  the  shop  precisely 
at  seven  o'clock  in  the  summer  and  precisely  at  eight 
o'clock  in  the  winter.  If  she  lost  a  single  day,  it  was 
to  be  made  up  at  the  expiration  of  her  apprenticeship. 
On  inquiring  how  long  she  must  worl$  each  day,  Mr.  Em 
erson  remarked, "  Our  girls  work  till  sundown  in  the 
summer  season,  and  in  winter  till  seven  or  eight  o'clock, 
except  occasionally  when  we  are  in  the  drag,  and  then 
they  work  a  little  longer." 

The  following  Monday  found  Mary  Jones  in  the  tai 
lor  shop  of  Mr.  Emerson,  with  some  twenty  or  thirty 
females,  all  of  whom  were  strangers  to  her.  As  she 
was  put  on  plain  sewing,  she  did  not  find  the  task  dif 
ficult,  and  by  degrees,  with  the  assistance  of  more  ex 
perienced  shop  girls,  was  enabled,  in  a  short  time,  to  do 
her  work  to  the  satisfaction  of  her  employer.  Mary 
heard  a  great  deal  of  complaint  made  by  the  appren 
tices  and  those  who  were  hired,  against  Mr.  Emerson, 
which  but  confirmed  her  in  the  opinion  she  had  enter 
tained  of  him.  They  accused  him  of  meanness,  of 
want  of  principle,  of  avarice,  of  caring  for  nothing  but 
making  money.  He  would  hurry  his  girls  to  throw  off 
as  much  work  as  possible,  and  when  called  upon  for 
their  hard-earned  money,  it  was  said  he  would  oblige 
them  to  wait,  or  put  them  off  with  miserable  orders. 
But  as  Mary  had  seen  none  of  this  herself  she  never 
repeated  a  word  of  what  was  intimated  in  the  shop. 
She  continued  to  work  constantly  and  closely  for  a 
month  or  two,  when  she  found  her  health  began  to 
fail.  Going  out  in  all  weathers,  sunshine  and  storm, 
cold  and  heat,  was  what  she  had  not  been  accustomed 
to  do.  Besides,  she  lived  a  long  distance  from  the 
shop.  Her  mother  was  obliged  to  engage  a  cheap  rent, 


THE   TAILORESS.  101 

and  this  she  could  not  find  except  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  town.  Walking  so  far  in  the  rain,  and  then  at 
tending  closely  to  her  business,  without  scarcely  mov 
ing  from  her  seat  during  the  day,  it  is  but  natural  to 
presume,  had  a  deleterious  effect  upon  Mary's  health. 
She  was  obliged  by  sheer  necessity  to  keep  her  house, 
and  her  bed  occasionally ;  but  feeling  better  the  follow 
ing  morning,  she  would  renew  her  task. 

One  day,  after  being  absent,  her  employer  said  to  her, 
as  she  entered  the  shop,  "  How  is  it,  miss,  that  you  ab 
sent  yourself  so  often  from  the  shop  ?  It  appears  to  me, 
whenever  you  know  we  are  more  hurried  than  usual, 
you  take  that  opportunity  to  stay  away  —  a  little  fear 
ful,  perhaps,  that  you  may  have  to  work  a  few  moments 
longer  at  night,  and  stir  your  lazy  bones." 

With  tears  in  her  eyes,  Mary  replied,  "  I  was  ex 
tremely  unwell,  so  that  it  was  not  possible  for  me  to 
come.  I  do  not  intend  to  leave  my  work  for  any  rea 
son  except  utter  inability  to  perform  my  duty." 

"A  likely  story  for  a  stout,  hearty  girl;  but  you 
must  mind  your  p's  and  q's  in  future,  or  I  shall  be  un 
der  the  necessity  of  getting  another  hand  to  supply  your 
place." 

Mary  said  nothing  more,  but  resumed  her  work. 
She  saw  there  was  sympathy  in  the  countenances  of 
her  fellow-apprentices,  and  when  Mr.  Emerson  left  the 
room,  they  with  one  voice  condemned  him,  and  begged 
her  to  think  nothing  about  what  he  said. 

"We  have  all  been  treated  as  unkindly  as  you," 
they  remarked,  "  and  there  is  scarcely  a  day  passes, 
that  we  are  not  scolded,  or  harshly  reproved,  for  be 
ing  a  minute  or  two  late,  or  for  not  doing  the  work  bet- 
9* 


102  THE  TAILORESS. 

ter  than  it  is  possible  to  be  done,  or  for  some  other  tri 
fling  cause,  when  he  is  in  an  unpleasant  mood." 

Mary  continued  to  go  to  the  shop,  although  on  some 
days  she  was  hardly  able  to  sit  up. 

She  was  determined  to  learn  her  trade,  and  earn  a 
support  for  herself  and  poor  mother,  and,  without 
dreaming  of  the  injury  she  was  doing  to  herself,  ehc  per 
severed  like  a  martyr.  One  day  it  was  exceedingly  un 
pleasant.  In  the  night  a  severe  storm  from  the  north 
east  had  commenced,  and  when  Mary  awoke,  the  snow 
was  nearly  two  feet  deep,  -and  so  drifted  that  it  was 
with  difficulty  that  one  could  pass  along  the  streets. 
But  Mary,  knowing  the  disposition  of  Mr.  Emerson,  re 
solved  that  she  would  go  to  the  shop.  Her  mother  en 
deavored  to  persuade  her  not  to  think  of  such  a  thing. 

"If  I  don't  go,  mother,  I  shall  certainly  lose  my 
place ;  and  the  hope  of  earning  something  for  our  sup 
port  will  assuredly  be  cut  off.  You  are  aware  of  the 
temper  and  disposition  of  Mr.  Emerson,  and  if  he  as 
certains  that  I  was  able  to  sit  up,  and  did  not  go  to  the 
shop,  he  will  discharge  me  at  once.  I  must  go,  mother." 

She  went.  Toiling  on  through  the  snow,  the  poor  girl 
reached  the  shop,  more  dead  than  alive.  No  inquiry  was 
made  how  she  got  along  or  whether  she  had  not  better 
rest  a  few  moments,  and  warm  herself.  No ;  but  she  was 
immediately  put  to  her  task,  and  as  some  of  the  girls 
were  kept  at  home  that  day,  Mary  was  obliged  to  stay 
much  longer  at  night,  and  go  home  alone  through 
deeper  snow  and  heavier  drifts.  When  she  arrived  at 
her  mother's  she  was  nearly  exhausted  and  by  her  ap 
pearance  one  would  have  supposed  her  to  be  in  a  rapid 
decline.  Her  mother  had  prepared  for  her  supper  the  best 


THE  TAILOEESS.  103 

her  little  means  could  afford,  of  which  she  partook  and 
retired.  The  next  day  Mary  was  too  sick  and  feeble  to 
leave  her  bed.  She  attempted  to  rise  two  or  three 
times,  and  as  often  sank  on  her  pillow  exhausted. 

"  0  mother !  "  said  she,  "  I  am  afraid  I  shall  lose  my 
place  now,  I  cannot  go  to  the  shop  to-day." 

"  Never  mind,  Mary,  don't  worry  yourself  about  it. 
If  you  should  be  turned  away,  Providence  will  never 
let  us  suffer." 

"  It  is  not  so  much  for  myself  that  I  feel,  mother.  It 
pains  me  to  see  you  work  so  hard ;  you  will  wear  your 
self  out  in  a  short  time." 

"  Perhaps,  after  an  hour's  rest,  you  may  feel  better. 
Try  to  obtain  a  little  more  sleep." 

But  through  the  day  Mary  was  sick  and  feeble  and 
scarcely  left  her  chamber.  The  following  day,  however, 
she  was  a  great  deal  better,  and  thought  she  was  able 
to  work.  It  was  at  this  time  that  the  conversation  took 
place  at  the  commencement  of  our  story.  She  started 
for  the  shop,  but  all  the  way  she  dreaded  to  meet  Mr. 
Emerson.  "  What  shall  I  do,"  she  thought  to  herself, 
"  if  he  turns  me  away  ?  What  will  become  of  my  poor, 
feeble  mother  ?  She  cannot  now  perform  the  work  she 
could  in  years  past,  for  sickness  and  age  have  worn  upon 
her  constitution,  and  almost  broken  her  down.  But 
I  will  trust  to  Him,  who  knoweth  my  situation,  and 
who  never  will  forsake  me  in  trouble."  And  then  she 
breathed  a  silent  prayer  to  Heaven  as  she  passed  along. 

As  she  opened  the  shop  door,  the  first  person  she  saw 
was  Mr.  Emerson.  An  angry  frown  was  on  his  coun 
tenance.  "  Mary,"  said  he,  "I  came  to  the  conclusion 
yesterday  to  discharge  you.  You  are  more  plague 
than  profit  to  me.  While  the  other  girls  work,  you  are 


104  THE  TAILORESS. 

away,  idling  your  time,  probably,  with  some  half-crazy 
lover.  I  can  stand  it  no  longer." 

Mary,  half  sobbing,  replied,  "  Sir,  I  was  not  able  to 
work  yesterday.  My  mother  will  tell  you  my  anxi 
ety  to  come ;  but  I  sat  up  very  little  all  day.  That  is 
the  truth." 

"  A  likely  story.  You  are  the  picture  of  health,  a 
stout,  hearty  girl ;  able  to  perform  the  work  of  a  man, 
and  yet  complain !  0  God !  what  a  world  tills  is ! 
No,  no ;  some  country  lover  was  in  to  see  you,  and  yet 
you  try  to  palm  off  this  story  upon  me.  I  can't  stand 
every  thing." 

"  But,  sir,  try  me  once  more.  I  am  poor,  or  I  would 
not  ask  for  work.  I  am  willing  to  labor  to  the  utmost 
of  my  ability,  in  hope  at  some  future  period  to  do  some 
thing  for  the  assistance  of  my  mother.  But  try  me  once 
more,  and  if  I  am  absent,  I  will  not  solicit  work  again." 

"  Well,  I'll  try  you ;  but  remember  the  first  day  you 
are  absent,  let  me  never  see  you  darken  that  door  again. 
Go  to  your  work ; "  and  as  the  poor  girl  hurried  along, 
he  muttered  something  to  himself,  which  she  could  not 
understand. 

Mary  had  now  more  than  half  completed  her  trade, 
and  as  warm  weather  was  approaching,  she  felt  encour 
aged  that  she  should  soon  accomplish  her  object,  with 
out  any  further  sickness  to  put  her  back  and  displease 
her  master.  On  and  on  she  toiled  at  her  task,  early  and 
late,  until  the  twelve  months  were  completed,  and  all 
the  time  she  had  lost  had  been  made  up.  Mrs.  Jones 
was  obliged  to  live  sparingly,  and  deny  herself  many 
comforts  to  enable  her  daughter  to  appear  decently 
through  the  past  year,  while  learning  her  trade,  and 
now  it  was  accomplished,  a  smile  of  joy  —  of  triumph 


THE  TAILORESS.  105 

—  lighted  up  their  hearts  and  made  the  little  room  they 
occupied,  a  paradise  to  them. 

"  Mother,  now  we  shall  be  happy,"  said  Mary ;  "  1 
shall  have  wages,  and  the  last  quarter's  rent,  which  I 
have  promised  in  six  or  eight  weeks,  I  shall  be  able  to 
pay." 

"  Or  it  may  be  that  I  shall  yet  earn  it." 

"  No,  mother,  you  must  not  labor  now,  as  you  used 
to  do.  I  will  work,  and  can  earn  sufficient,  if  God 
gives  me  my  health,  to  supply  us  abundantly  with  all 
the  necessaries  of  life." 

Full  of  hope,  Mary  entered  the  shop,  and  informed 
Mr.  Emerson  that  her  time  was  out,  and,  according  to 
his  agreement,  requested  employment. 

"  But  have  you  made  up  all  your  lost  time  ?  "  inquired 
he. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Mary,  "  every  hour  that  I  was  absent 
I  have  fully  made  up." 

"  Well,  I  must  look  into  it.  As  I  am  busy  now,  call 
some  t>ther  time." 

"  Can  I  not  go  to  work  to-day  ?  " 

"  I  can't  attend  to  it  now.  Don't  bother  me  —  I'm 
busy." 

The  poor  girl  left  the  shop  in  tears.  Her  hopes  were 
almost  blasted.  She  had  not  doubted  but  she  should  find 
employment,  since  she  had  given  a  whole  year's  work, 
and  received  not  a  farthing ;  she  did  not  expect  to  be 
treated  in  this  unkind  manner.  Her  mother  endeav 
ored  to  console  her  by  saying  that  perhaps  in  a  day  or 
two  Mr.  Emerson  would  have  something  for  her  to  do, 
and  that  he  was  doubtless  exceedingly  perplexed  when 
she  called  upon  him. 

Mary  saw  Mr.  Emerson  in  a  few  days,  and  all  the  re- 


106  THE  TAILORESS. 

ply  he  made  to  her  urgent  request  was  —  "I  have  not 
yet  attended  to  it ;  call  next  week  and  I'll  let  you  know." 

It  was  three  or  four  weeks  after  Mary  left  the  shop 
before  she  entered  it  again  to  work.  She  had  thus 
been  put  off  from  time  to  time.  She  was  to  receive  for 
her  labors  but  twenty-five  cents  a  day.  But  then  she 
thought  that  that  amount,  well  spent,  would  make  her 
self  and  mother  comfortable.  She  had  pledged  herself 
to  pay  five  dollars  which  was  the  last  quarter's  rent,  and 
this  she  could  obtain  in  three  or  four  weeks.  Punctual 
and  constant  to  her  task,  the  four  weeks  soon  passed, 
and  the  landlord  called  for  his  pay. 

On  asking  Mr.  Emerson  for  the  amount,  he  answered 
her,  shortly,  "  I  have  no  money  now ! "  and  left  the 
shop.  What  to  do  the  poor  girl  did  not  know ;  the 
money  was  promised,  and  she  could  not  obtain  it.  Her 
landlord  was  a  rich  and  oppressive  man ;  he  had  threat 
ened  to  turn  them  from  the  house  a  month  before, 
and  it  was  only  the  solemn  promise  of  Mary  that  he 
should  be  paid  in  six  or  eight  weeks,  that  induced  him 
to  be  lenient,  and  permit  them  to  occupy  the  house. 
Now,  he  was  expecting  the  money ;  it  had  been  prom 
ised  that  very  morning ;  for  Mary  had  no  doubt,  as  her 
employer  was  wealthy,  that  he  would  pay  her  at  any  mo 
ment.  What  could  she  do  ?  She  waited  a  whole  hour 
for  another  interview  with  Mr.  Emerson,  and  then  made 
known  to  him  her  case.  But  he  was  perfectly  indiffer 
ent,  said  he  did  not  wish  to  be  eternally  dunned,  and 
never  intended  to  pay  her  wages  in  money.  Per 
haps  in  the  course  of  a  few  days  he  would  give  her  an 
order.  Such  treatment  was  more  than  a  sensitive  girl 
could  bear.  She  went  home,  bathed  in  tears.  Her 
mother  could  not  pacify  her,  although  she  endeavored 


THE  TAILORESS.  107 

to  do  so.  "But  I  have  promised  to  pay  our  landlord. 
He  expected  it  to-day ;  and  he  will  certainly  turn  us  out 
of  the  house." 

"  I  will  see  him  again,  Mary." 

"  It  will  be  of  no  use.  You  know  his  disposition  — 
that  what  he  says,  he  will  do  at  all  hazards." 

While  they  were  conversing,  and  Mary  was  in  tears, 
Mr.  Power,  the  landlord  entered,  and  asked  for  his  rent. 

"  Be  seated  a  moment,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Jones, "  and  I  — 

"  I  can't  stop,"  interrupted  Mr.  Power  ;  "  hand  me 
the  money  and  I'll  go." 

"  Mary  could  not  obtain  it  to-day." 

"  What !  not  ready  yet !  Leave  the  house  instantly ! 
Start !  bag,  baggage,  and  all !  You've  imposed  on  kind 
ness  too  long!  Away  with  you!  Don't  shed  those 
crocodile  tears,  but  pack  up  your  duds  and  start !  I'll 
not  be  treated  in  this  manner  any  longer." 

"0  sir!"  cried  Mary,  "  do  have  pity  —  do  pity  my 
poor,  aged  mother.  I  pray  you,  don't  send  her  into  the 
street  this  bitter  cold  night.  Wait  but  one  day  longer, 
and  we  will  pay  you,  or  go." 

"  I  wont  wait,  and  there  is  an  end  on't.  I  have 
been  wronged  and  cheated,  times  without  number,  by 
just  such  spongers  as  you  are,  and  when  it  comes  to 
this,  your  pretended  tears  you  think  will  save  you. 
Away !  out  of  the  house ! " 

"  I  beg  you,  dear  sir,  to  hear  me.    I  have  the  amount' 
due  me,  and  expected  to  receive  the  money  this  day 
from  Mr.  Emerson ;  but  he  declined  to  pay  me  and  says 
he  will  give  me  an  order.     If  you  would  only  accept 
that,  sir,  I  think  I  could  satisfy  you  to-morrow." 

"  Pretty  well,  too,  to  tuck  off  an  order  upon  one  who 
has  worn  out  all  his  patience  in  waiting  upon  you. 


108  THE  TAILORESS. 

But  if  you  will  certainly  hand  me  in  a  good  order  to 
morrow,  I  will  let  you  remain ;  but  remember,  I  will 
never  take  an  order  again  ;  and  the  moment  you  refuse 
to  pay  your  rent  punctually,  that  moment  you  shall  leave 
the  house.  This  is  the  last  time  I  will  be  fooled  with  by 
you."  So  saying,  he  left  the  house. 

But  little  rest  did  Mary  and  her  mother  obtain  that 
night.  Perhaps  Mr.  Emerson  would  refuse  to  give  the 
order  the  next  day ;  and  if  so,  what  would  become  of 
them?  With  broken  slumbers,  the  morning  dawned. 
After  partaking  of  her  scanty  meal,  Mary  went  to  the 
shop.  She  commenced  her  weary  task  with  feeble  spirits. 
Her  peculiar  look  was  noticed  by  her  shop-mates,  but 
not  knowing  the  weight  that  preyed  like  an  incubus 
upon  her  mind,  they  failed  to  administer  proper  conso 
lation.  As  soon  as  Mr.  Emerson  came  in,  Mary  left  her 
work,  and  trembling  with  fear,  she  made  known  her  ob 
ject. 

"  When  I  get  leisure,  I'll  attend  to  it,"  he  replied. 
"Have  I  not  told  you  repeatedly  not  to  dun  me  to 
death?  You  are  more  trouble  to  me  than  a  little. 
I  tell  you  once  for  all  that  I  will  not  be  so  tormented 
by  you ;  when  it  is  convenient,  I  will  give  you  the  or 
der,  and  not  before." 

"  Sir,"  said  Mary, "  I  am  peculiarly  situated  ;  if  it 
were  not  so  I  would  not  ask  you  for  the  order." 

"  That's  your  eternal  plea.  There  is  always  some 
thing  urgent  about  your  business.  You  want  to  buy 
some  dainties,  maybe,  to  entertain  a  country  lover.  If 
you  were  half  as  interested  in  your  work,  and  consulted 
your  employer's  interest,  you  would  be  a  great  deal  bet 
ter  off.  When  I  am  at  leisure  I'll  attend  to  you,  and  I 
hope  in  mercy  this  will  satisfy  you." 


THE  TAILORESS.  109 

The  tears  came  in  Mary's  eyes  as  she  stood  before  the 
unfeeling  man. 

"  I  could  tell  you,  sir,  my  object  in  requesting  the  or 
der  to-day,  if  it  were  necessary ;  and  then  you  would 
not  censure  me.  A  great  deal  hangs  upon  this  decision." 

Calling  his  clerk,  he  said  —  "Give  this  girl  an  order 
on  Mr.  Gooch,  the  grocer,  for  five  dollars.  I  shall 
never  have  any  peace  until  she  is  paid.  To  be  so  tor 
mented  witli  the  plaguy  girls  is  enough  to  make  one 
tired  of  life ;  but,  thank  Heaven,  she  is  the  only  pest  I 
have  in  the  shop." 

Mary  took  the  order,  but  she  could  not  restrain  her 
tears  as  she  renewed  her  task.  The  girls  pitied  her, 
sympathized  with  her,  but  yet  knew  not  her  sorrow., 
"When  night  came,  she  carried  the  order  to  Mr.  Power, 
who,  as  he  took  it  from  her  hands,  remarked,  "  This  is 
the  only  thing  of  the  kind  I  shall  ever  take.  If  the 
next  quarter's  rent  is  not  paid  on  the  day  it  is  due,  I 
want  you  to  understand  distinctly,  that  you  must  shift 
your  quarters  forthwith.  There  will  be  no  mistake 
about  it." 

Mary  flew  to  her  mother  to  tell  her  the  glad  news  of 
her  success  —  that  she  had  received  the  order,  and  paid 
the  landlord.  Happiness  was  in  that  cot  that  night,  as 
with  gratitude  they  raised  their  thoughts  to  God. 

Early  the  next  morning,  Mary  and  her  mother  were 
greatly  surprised  on  seeing  Mr.  Power  enter  their  door. 
By  his  looks  they  were  prepared  for  something  unusual, 
when  he  exclaimed,  "Am  I  thus  insulted!  —  Is  my 
kindness  and  lenity  to  you  thus  repaid?  Wretches 
you  are,  to  give  such  an  order  as  this  to  me !  —  Why, 
Mr.  Gooch  charges  me  ten  per  cent  higher  than  I  am  • 
charged  at  any  other  store  in  town.  He  says  it  is  an 
10 


110  THE  TAILORESS. 

express  understanding  between  himself  and  Mr.  Emer 
son,  as  he  makes  the  deduction  in  his  favor  on  settle 
ment.  This  you  must  have  known  when  you  palmed 
the  order  off  on  me  !  Out  of  the  house  instantly,  and 
take  your  miserable  order.  I'll  never  let  my  house 
again  unless  I  know  who's  going  into  it,  and  I  can  se 
cure  the  rent.  Out  of  the  house  instantly,  or  an  officer 
shall  be  called  immediately." 

•In  vain  did  Mary  and  her  mother  plead ;  the  hard 
hearted  wretch  was  invulnerable  to  the  calls  of  pity. 
He  even  seized  their  only  bed,  and  threw  it  on  the 
floor,  declaring  that  unless  they  exerted  themselves, 
every  article  should  be  thrown  into  the  street. 

"  I  shall  retain  enough  of  your  furniture,"  said  he, 
"  to  cover  my  debt,  and  when,  you  settle  you  may  have 
it,  and  not  before." 

A  neighbor  kindly  consented  to  take  Mary  and  her 
mother  into  her  house,  and  permit  them  to  occupy  a  little 
bedroom.  Thankful  for  such  a  favor,  they  expressed 
their  gratitude  in  a  flood  of  tears,  and  soon  removed 
what  little  they  possessed.  But  her  hard  work  and 
eonfineinent,  her  exposure  to  all  weathers,  and  the  suf 
ferings  of  her  mind,  soon  brought  the  dutiful  and  affec 
tionate  Mary  to  a  sick-bed.  That  very  day  she  was 
taken  with  a  slow  fever,  and  was  obliged  to  absent  her 
self  from  the  shop,  though  with  great  reluctance,  as 
the  little  she  could  ^earn  would  so  materially  assist 
them,  and  of  which  they  now  were  in  peculiar  need. 
Her  mother  was  obliged  to  take  the  order  returned  by 
Mr.  Power,  and  purchase  those  articles  necessary  to  the 
sustenance  of  life,  and  she  found  that  the  grocer  did, 
indeed,  charge  her  a  great  price  for  her  goods.  Once 
she  remonstrated  a  little,  but  received  only  an  insult- 


THE  TAILORESS.  Ill 

ing  reply.  It  was  a  bargain  between  Mr.  Gopch  and 
the  tailor,  that  the  latter  should  have  a  certain  per  cent 
deduction  by  ordering  goods  at  his  store,  and  there  was 
no  remedy  for  the  poor  woman. 

For  three  or  four  weeks,  Mary  lingered  on  her  bed, 
when  her  disease  took  an  unfavorable  turn,  and  her  sit 
uation  was  pronounced  dangerous  by  her  physician. 

"It  is  no  unwelcome  news  to  me,"  said  the  noble 
girl ;  "  but  on  your  account,  dear  mother,  do  I  wish  to 
live.  It  pains  me  to  think  of  dying  and  leaving  you 
to  the  charities  of  a  cold  world." 

"  Fear  not  for  me,  my  dear  child,"  said  her  mother, 
who  was  almost  inconsolable  by  the  thought  of  losing 
her  affectionate  child,  "  God  will  take  care  of  me  — 
and  if  we  part,  it  cannot  be  for  a  long  season.  I  feel 
my  days  are  nearly  numbered." 

"If  I  die,  I  know  our  Father  above  will  provide  for 
you.  He  never  forsakes  those  who  put  their  trust  in 
him." 

Many  a  time  did  the  poor  mother  take  'herself  from 
the  bedside  of  her  child,  that  Mary  might  not  see  the 
grief  of  her  heart.  It  was  like  death  —  yea,  harder 
than  death,  to  part  with  one  so  kind,  so  dutiful,  so  af 
fectionate  ;  an  only  prop,  an  only  counsellor  in  her  de 
clining  years. 

As  the  days  passed  away,  Mary  grew  weaker  arid 
weaker ;  a  few  only  called  to  see  her,  and  among  these 
the  females  who  worked  in  the  shop,  who  by  their  little 
presents  and  kindnesses  manifested  how  much  they 
loved  her.  They  seldom  left  her  couch  with  dry  eyes. 
Her  resignation,  her  trust  in  God ;  her  patience ;  her 
Christian  character  throughout,  so  wrought  upon  them 
that  they  almost  envied  her  situation.  Mr.  Emerson 
never  visited  her,  never  inquired  for  her  health,  and 


112  THE  TAILORESS. 

was  as  indifferent  to  her  circumstances,  as  if  she  were 
a  brute.  Mary  censured  him  not ;  nor  manifested  any 
other  disposition  than  that  of  kindness  towards  him. 

Mary  Jones  died  —  she  died  in  faith  and  in  triumph. 
Her  last  words  were,  "  Lord  Jesus,  receive  my  spirit," 
and  the  struggle  was  over. 

A  few  followed  her  to  the  grave ;  for.  she  was  known 
by  a  few  only.  But  their  sorrow  was  sincere.  Even 
now  when  her  name  is  mentioned,  it  brings  a  tear  to  the 
eye,  and  a  sorrow  to  the  heart. 

The  mother  survived  her  daughter  but  a  few  months, 
most  of  which  time,  she  kept  her  bed.  She  now  re 
poses  by  the  side  of  Mary,  in  the  house  appointed  for 
all  the  living. 

The  case  of  -Mary  Jones  is  not  a  solitary  one.  Hun 
dreds  of  feeble  and  tender  girls  are  induced  to  go  out 
to  work,  in  all  weather,  by  the  hope  of  a  future  sup 
port.  They  are  poor,  but  they  are  industrious  and  vir 
tuous.  There  are  many  who  take  advantage  of  their 
circumstances,  and  give  them  but  trifling  pay  for  their 
services.  When  money  is  justly  due  them,  and  they 
are  in  pressing  need  of  the  necessaries  of  life,  justice 
is  denied  them  day  after  day  and  week  after  week. 
They  turn  them  off  with  miserable  orders,  or  pursue 
any  other  course  whereby  they  can  make  money,  with 
out  any  regard  to  the  oppression  which  they  exercise. 
We  verily  believe  that,  like  the  subject  of  the  above 
tale,  scores  of  poor  females  thus  suffer  and  thus  die. 
But  few  know  them,  and  their  wrongs  are  suffered  to 
die  with  them.  If  we  can  awaken  an  emotion  of  pity 
in  a  single  breast,  or  induce  one  heart  of  avarice  to 
melt  in  love  and  tenderness,  or  to  sympathize  with  the 
suffering  poor,  we  shall  not  have  written  this  story  in 
vain,  and  our  reward  will  be  incomparably  great. 


BEAUTY  AND  DEFORMITY. 


Trust  not  to  beauty  ;  It  will  fade 

Like  rainbow  tints  away  ;    ' 
While  virtue,  in  perennial  bloom 

Lives  through  an  endless  day. 

"  WILL  nobody  love  me,  mother  ? "  said  Ellen  to  her 
only  parent,  as  she  came  running  into  the  house  — 
"will  nobody  love  me?"  and  she  hid  her  face  in  her 
mother's  lap  and  wept. 

"  Yes,  my  child,  your  mother  loves  you ;  but  why  these 
tears  ?  " 

"  As  I  was  at  play  on  the  bank,  a  lady  passed  by,  who, 
as  I  looked  up,  exclaimed !  '  What  a  horrible  creature ! ' 
0  mother  !  nobody  will  love  me  but  you." 

Mrs.  Mansion  had  but  one  daughter,  and  that  was 
Ellen.  She  was  extremely  plain.  Her  hair  was  coarse 
and  of  a  flaxen  color,  and  always  looked  in  a  snarl.  Her 
eyes  were  very  large,  and  of  a  homely  gray,  her  mouth 
wide,  and  her  nose  flat.  Besides,  her  face  was  com 
pletely  covered  with  freckles,  which  altogether  made  her 
one  of  the  plainest  children  ever  created.  To  a  stranger, 
she  had  a  very  unprepossessing  appearance,  which  of 
ten  led  people  to  make  remarks  similar  to  the  above, 
and  which  gave  the  sensitive  girl  a  great  deal  of  pain. 
But  Ellen  Mansion  possessed  a  sweet  and  amiable  dis 
position  ;  she  was  kind,  benevolent,  and  generally  cheer- 
10* 


114  BEAUTY  AND   DEFORMITY. 

fill,  so  that  she  won  the  affections  of  her  neighbors 
and  companions.  It  was  only  when  an  unkind  remark 
was  made  in  her  presence,  that  sorrow  seemed  to  enter 
her  heart,  and  then  she  would  give  full  vent  to  her  feel 
ings  in  tears. 

Within  a  short  distance  from  the  cottage  of  Mrs. 
Mansion,  lived  a  wealthy  farmer  by  the  name  of  John 
son,  whose  only  children,  Edward  and  Jane,  were 
brought  up  in  the  indulgence  of  all  their  hearts  could 
desire.  The  daughter  was  pretty,  —  some  called  her 
beautiful,  —  and  she  was  the  idol  of  her  parents.  But 
she  was  a  proud  and  envious  child.  As  she  grew  older 
she  was  fully  sensible  of  her  beautiful  face,  and  was 
aware  that  she  attracted  a  great  deal  of  attention  and 
many  admirers.  Once  she  was  the  playmate  of  the 
widow's  daughter,  and  together  they  would  cull  flow 
ers,  attend  school,  and  make  themselves  .happy  in  vari 
ous  ways.  But  as  years  flew  by,  and  she  could  distin 
guish  between  riches  and  poverty,  beauty  and  deformity 
and  saw  that  caresses  were  bestowed  upon  her,  and  de 
nied  to  her  friend,  she  began  to  treat  Ellen  with  cold 
ness,  to  call  upon  her  less  often,  and  finally,  in  her  so 
cial  parties,  to  refuse  to  give  her  an  invitation.  The 
poor  girl  felt  it  all,  and  said  but  little.  Instead  of  en 
grossing  her  miiid  with  the  fashions  and  the  follies  of 
the  day,  she  spent  her  leisure  hours  in  'reading  and 
study  —  in  improving  her  mind.  As  she  grew  older," 
she  became  more  intelligent,  but  her  homely  features 
remained.  When  Ellen  and  Jane  were  about  eighteen 
years  of  age,  there  seemed  to  be  a  perfect  coldness  ex 
isting  between  them  —  they  would  speak  when  they 
met,  and  that  was  all.  Occasionally,  Ellen  would  en 
deavor  to  throw  out  some  pleasant  topic  of  conversa- 


BEAUTY  AND   DEFORMITY.  115 

tion,  but  Jane  appeared  so  indifferent  to  the  poor  girl, 
that  she,  without  appearing  to  notice  it,  would  part 
with  her  as  pleasantly  as  if  she  had  always  been  kindly 
treated.  It  was  her  disposition  to  return  kindness  for 
ill-nature,  while  she  endeavored  always  to  speak  well 
of  her  neighbors.  She  was  well  aware,  if  she  had  pos 
sessed  beauty  and  wealth,  she  would  have  been  treated 
differently ;  but  she  remembered  that  she  was  created 
as  God  saw  best,  and  a  murmur  never  escaped  her  lips. 

The  village  church  had  recently  been  deprived  of 
their  pastor  by  death.  The  venerable  rector  was  a  good 
old  man,  and  Ellen  appeared  to  be  his  especial  favorite. 
By  his  request,  she  attended  upon  him  during  his  sick 
ness,  administered  to  his  comforts ;  and  did  all  in  her 
power  to  alleviate  his  sufferings.  As  he  was  a  single 
man,  his  little  property,  by  his  will,  was  given  to  Mrs. 
Mansion  and  her  daughter. 

The  good  pastor  had  been  dead  some  months,  when 
a  call  was  given  to  a  young  man,  who  had  supplied  the 
pulpit  for  a  few  sabbaths,  to  settle  over  the  church  and 
society.  Mr.  Clark  accepted  the  invitation,  and  became 
more  and  more  attached  to  the  people  the  longer  he 
continued  among  them.  Mr.  Johnson  was  the  principal 
supporter  of  the  ministry,  and  Mr.  Clark  boarded  at  his 
house.  The  young  pastor  was  a  well-educated  man, 
and  possessed  fine  talents.  He  was  what  might  be 
termed  handsome.  It  was  the  village  talk,  that  Mr. 
Clark  would  take  Jane  to  be  his  future  companion,  and 
as  her  father  was  wealthy  and  a  man  of  influence  in 
the  town,  all  the  neighbors  thought  it  would  be  a  wise 
choice.  Jane  had  received  a  number  of  offers,  none  of 
which  she  would  accept,  as  they  were  mostly  from  farm 
ers  and  mechanics,  who  did  not- possess  much  of  this 


116  BEAUTY   AND  DEFORMITY. 

world's  goods.  What  was  whispered  by  her  neighbors, 
Jane  partially  construed  into  a  reality,  and  really  sup 
posed  Mr.  Clark  was  in  love  with  her.  Of  course,  as 
he  boarded  in  her  father's  house,  it  could  not  be  other 
wise  than  he  should  treat  her  with  politeness  and  occa 
sionally  accompany  her  on  a  visit  to  her  friends.  These 
common  attentions  led  Jane  and  her  parents  and  her 
neighbors  to  presume  that  their  pastor  intended  to  make 
the  beautiful  girl  his  companion.  A  few  of  the  judi 
cious  thought  otherwise,  and  even  expressed  it  among 
themselves.  "  Jane  is  not  suitable  for  a  pastor's  wife. 
She  cannot  work  —  she  is  too  proud  and  too  self-willed," 
would  be  their  remarks.  In  his  pastoral  visits,  Mr. 
Clark  made  no  distinction  between  the  wealthy  and  the 
poor,  and  would  as  often  be  found  in  the  humble  cot  as 
in  the  painted  dwelling.  Mrs.  Mansion  seemed  to  be  a 
particular  favorite  of  his,  and  it  was  noticed  that  the 
parson  never  appeared  to  be  more  happy  than  when 
conversing  with  her  and  with  Ellen.  The  latter  was 
remarkably  intelligent,  and  appeared  more  like  his  equal 
in  conversation,  than  any  other  member  of  his  parish. 
Then,  too,  Mr.  Clark  seemed  to  sympathize  with  the  un 
fortunate  girl  and  her  poor  mother. 

One  day  after  Mr.  Clark  had  been  settled  nearly 
a  year,  in  conversaing  with  Mr.  Johnson,  he  asked 
him  what  he  thought  of  his  entering  the  matrimonial 
state.  Supposing  the  good  pastor  had  his  daughter  in 
view,  he  replied  very  favorably  to  his  query,  recom 
mending  him  to  enter  that  state  without  delay. 

"  Before  many  months  I  think  I  shall  take  me  a  wife," 
said  the  pastor. 

Mr.  Johnson  mentioned  the  conversation  to  his  wife, 
and  both  concluded  that  Mr.  Clark  had  their  daughter  ia 


BEAUTY   AND  DEFORMITY.  117 

his  mind.  Nothing  was  too  much  for  them  to  do  to 
please  their  minister,  and  make  their  house  agreeable ; 
but  he,  good  man,  had  not  the  least  suspicion  of  their 
conjectures,  but  pursued  the  same  course  as  he  had 
heretofore.  Jane  was  too  vain  and  too  proud  for  him, 
and,  besides,  she  did  not  possess  sufficient  intelligence 
to  make  her  company  agreeable.  In  fact,  she  had  noth 
ing  but  beauty  and  wealthy  parents  to  recommend  her, 
and  these  were  nothing  in  comparison  to  a  well-in 
formed  mind,  a  gentle  disposition,  and  a  humble  heart. 
One  evening  Mr.  Clark  remarked,  "  I  think  I  shall  call 
on  Mrs.  Mansion ;  should  you  like  to  accompany  me  ?  " 
addressing  Jane. 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  said,  "  I  should 
be  pleased  to  go,"  but  her  look  and  manner  gave  her 
words  the  lie. 

When  they  arrived  at  Mrs.  Mansion's,  Ellen  and  her 
mother  received  them  with  smiles,  although  many  a  day 
had  passed  since  Jane  had  had  an  opportunity  of  con 
versing  with  her  friend.  The  evening  passed  pleasantly 
away  to  all  but  the  haughty  girl.  As  they  returned  to 
their  homes,  the  pastor  inquired  of  Jane,  "  How  are 
you  pleased  with  Ellen  Mansion  ?  " 

"  I  like  her  very  well,  but  you  know  her  situation 
has  been  such  that  she  has  never  seen  much  company. 
She  is  so  distressingly  homely,  few  care  about  visiting 
her." 

"  Don't  you  think  she  has  a  fine  mind  ?  " 

"  Why  —  as  to  that,  I  don't  think  she  is  any  thing  re 
markable.  To  be  sure,  she  has  studied  a  great  deal, 
and  ought  to  know  something." 

From  Jane's  conversation,  Mr.  Clark  saw  that  her 
own  condition  in  life  and  her  personal  beauty  had  so 


118  BEAUTY   AND   DEFORMITY. 

carried  her  away,  that  she  could  not  look  on  poverty 
and  deformity  with  any  degree  of  complacency.  But 
as  for  himself  he  looked  to  the  mind,  and  not  to  its 
rough  shell,  and  although  Ellen  was  plain,  he  had  re 
solved  long  hefore  to  make  Ijer  his  wife. 

The  next  sabbath,  when  it  was  announced  that  Mr. 
Clark  was  about  taking  to  himself  a  wife,  and  the  lady 
of  his  choice  was  Ellen  Mansion, .  nearly  the  whole 
parish  was  struck  with  astonishment.  "When  Mr.  John 
son  announced  it  to  his  family,  the  proud  Jane  was 
completely  overcome,  and  if  it  had  been  fashionable  in 
those  days,  she  would  have  fainted  and  fallen,  and  not 
have  recovered  so  as  to  see  company  for  a  whole  week. 
"  Can  it  be  possible  ? "  exclaimed  her  mother,  "  only 
think  how  much  we  are  doing  for  Mr.  Clark  —  and  now 
he  has  gone,  to  that  old  lady  and  taken  her  daughter. 
Why,  Ellen  is  nothing  but  a  heap  of  deformity." 

"  '  Tis  laughable,  truly,"  said  the  father ;  "  where  can 
be  his  discernment  ?  He  must  be  ashamed  to  walk  with 
her  in  the  street.  But  every  one  to  his  taste." 

"  I  don't  care,"  at  last  said  Jane,  V  let  him  have  the 
creature,  if  he  likes  her,  and  good  luck  to  them.  Mr. 
Clark  is  no  great  things  after  all." 

Mr.  Clark  found  he  was  treated  rather  coldly  by  the 
family,  but  could  not  divine  the  reason.  Certainly, 
thought  he,  Mr.  Johnson  can  have  no  objection  to 
my  marrying,  since  he  expressed  himself  favorably 
of  it. 

A  day  or  two  after,  "when  the  subject  was  introduced, 
Mr.  Johnson  ventured  to  express  his  surprise  at  the 
choice  he  had  made,  and  stated  that  many  of  his  parish 
were  of  the  same  opinion. 

."  I  tell  you,  Mr  Johnson,"  said  the  pastor,  "  there  is 


BEAUTY   AND   DEFOEMITY.  119 

not  that  young  woman's  equal  in  town.  She  is  plain 
to  look  at,  I  know,  but  she  possesses  a  superior  mind, 
and  a  most  excellent  disposition.  She  is  perfectly  hum 
ble  ;  she  is  kind  and  obliging,  and  is  more  anxious  to  do 
a  favor  than  to  benefit  herself.  It  is  her  delight  to  visit 
the  sick  and  the  distressed  and  use  all  the  means  in  her 
power  to  benefit  them.  Your  former  pastor  loved  her ; 
there  was  not  a  member  of  his  church  he  esteemed  more 
highly  than  he  did  Ellen.  I  believe  she  possesses  every 
requisite  for  a  minister's  wife,  and  I  know  she  will 
make  me  happy.  If  there  is  a  person  in  our  society 
who  can  say  aught  of  her  I  should  like  to  see  that  indi 
vidual,  for  I  am  certain  he  cannot  know  her." 

Mr.  Johnson  made  no  reply  >  he  was  a  little  vexed, 
because,  •  in  his  own  mind,  he "  had  selected  his  only 
daughter  for  the  pastor's  wife,  who  possessed  both 
wealth  and  beauty.  To  have  a  very  plain  and  humble 
girl  take  a  place  he  had  expected  Jane  to  fill,  was  hum 
bling  indeed.  If  Mr.  Johnson  thus  felt,  the  haughty 
girl  felt  it  so  much  the  more  keenly,  -and  no  language 
was  too  harsh  for  them  to  use  in  reference  to  Mr.  Clark. 

"Without  much  ceremony  or  parade,  Mr.  Clark  and 
Ellen  were  married.  The  neighbors  remarked  that  she 
never  looked  better,  and  that  as  she  grew  older,  she  was 
less  plain.  Certain  it  was  that  the  virtues  of  her  heart 
made  up  for  the  deficiencies  of  her  person.  Ellen  made 
a  most  excellent  wife,  and  by  her  counsels  and  advice 
contributed  greatly  to  the  happiness  of  her  husband. 
The  church  and  society  now  approved  of  his  choice,  and 
seemed  to  be  as  devotedly  attached  to  the  wife  as  they 
were  to  the  pastor.  In  her  benevolent  acts  her  kind 
nesses  and  her  charities,  her  looks  were  forgotten,  and 
her  plainness  was  never  mentioned  or  thought  of  by  the 


120  BEAUTY   AND  DEFORMITY. 

people  In  a  few  months,  Mr.  Johnson  and  his  family 
buried  all  their  hard  feelings  towards  the  pastor,  and 
Jane  herself  became  a  constant  visitor  at  Mr.  Clark's. 
She  had  altered  materially  within  a  few  months,  and  in 
stead  of  that  haughty  look,  and  that  unbecoming  behav 
ior  which  formerly  characterized  her,  she  manifested  a 
humble  temper,  and  lived  a  consistent  life.  She  united 
herself  to  the  church  of  Mr.  Clark,  and  with  his  wife 
went  about  doing  good. 

Jane  has  often  acknowledged  her  errors  to  Mrs.  Clark, 
and  confessed  her  sin  in  slighting  her  on  account  of  her 
poverty  and  deformity.  "  But,"  she  has  often  repeated, 
"  you  have  been  the  making  of  me.  When  I  treated 
you  with  contempt,  the  forgiving  disposition  which  you 
always  manifested,  ma'de  me  ashamed  of  myself;  and 
although  I  knew  your  mental  superiority,  I  would,  not 
acknowledge  it,  and  so  I  shunned  and  endeavored  to 
despise  you." 

A  few  years  passed  away,  while  peace  and  prosperity 
attended  the  good  pastor  and  his  people.  They  loved 
him  and  his  wife,  and  used  their  endeavors  to  sustain 
and  encourage  them.  To  be  sure,  his  salary  was  small 
and  his  pay  was  mostly  received  from  the  farms  of  his 
parishioners,  yet  he  had  plenty  to  sustain  himself  and 
asked  for  no  more.  But  in  the  midst  of  their  happiness, 
the  good  and  devoted  wife  of  the  pastor  sickened  and  died. 
It  was  a  severe  stroke  to  Mr.  Clark,  for  he  was  devot 
edly  attached  to  his  wife,  and  the  society  mourned  her 
loss  as  if  a  parent  or  a  child  had  been  taken  from 
their  own  families.  Hundreds  followed  her  to  the 
grave,  and  never  before  was  there  such  a  sad  day  to  the 
poor  villagers.  It  could  be  read  in  every  countenance ; 
it  could  be  noticed  in  every  word.  Mr.  Johnson,  at 


BEAUTY  AND   DEFOEMITY.  121 

his  own  expense,  erected  a  monument  to  her  memory, 
on  wliich  her  name  and  her  age  were  inscribed  with  the 
following  simple  line :  — 

"  BLESSED  AEE  THE  DEAD  WHO  DIE  IN  THE  LOED." 

A  year  had  elapsed  since  the  death  of  the  beloved 
Ellen,  when  Mr.  Clark  led  to  the  altar  another  bride. 
The  reader  will  not  be  greatly  surprised  when  he  is  in 
formed  that  her  name  was  Jane  Johnson  —  the  once 
proud  and  unsanctified  girl ;  the  now  humble  and  Chris 
tian  woman.  She  had  been  so  long  intimate  with  the 
pastor's  first  wife,  that  she  caught  her  very  spirit,  and 
became  so  much  like  her  that  the  good  man  has  often 
said,  "  It  seems  as  if  the  soul  of  Ellen  had  passed  into 
another  body."  Every  one  approved  the  pastor's  choice ; 
for  Jane  was  as  much  respected  and  beloved  now,  as 
she  was  condemned  before.  For  many  years  they  lived 
happily  together,  and  spent  their  days  in  following  the 
example  of  their  Master  in  going  about  and  doing  good. 
Their  influence  is  felt  to  this  day  among  the  people  of 
that  devoted  parish. 

Let  young  women  learn,  that  though  beauty  may  en 
tice  the  eye,  it  cannot  win  the  heart ;  but  real  goodness, 
though  clothed  in  a  plain  exterior,  commands  the  love 
and  respect  of  all. 
11 


A  TALE  OF  MOOSE  ALLEY. 


CHAPTER    I. 

A  little  word  in  kindness  spoken, 

A  motion  or  a  tear, 
Has  often  healed  the  heart  that's  broken, 

And  made  a  friend  sincere. 
A  word,  a  look,  has  crushed  to  earth 

Full  many  a  budding  flower, 
Which,  had  a  smile  but  owned  its  birth, 

Would  bless  life's  darkest  hour. 
Then  deem  it  not  an  idle  thing 

A  pleasant  word  to  speak ; 
The  face  you  wear,  the  thoughts  you  bring, 

A  heart  may  heal  or  break. 

"  THERE  is  some  one  knocking  at  our  back  door,  Sa 
rah  ;  go  and  see  who  it  is." 

The  little  girl  ran  to  see  what  was  wanted,  and  in  a 
few  minutes,  returned  to  her  mother,  saying,  "  It  was 
only  a  dirty  beggar  boy,  who  asked  for  cold  victuals." 

"  What  did  you  tell  him  ?  " 

"  I  told  him  we  hadn't  any,  and  that  he  must  come 
again." 

"  But  perhaps  his  parents  are  very  poor,  and  he  may 
not  have  had  any  thing  to  eat  to-day.  You  should  have 
given  him  something." 

"  He  looked  so  ragged  and  so  dirty,  that  I  was  -almost 
afraid  of  him." 


A   TALE   OF  MOOSE   ALLEY.  123 

"  If  he  ever  calls  again,  ask  him  to  come  in,  and  if 
he  is  really  deserving  of  charity,  we  will  pick  up  some 
thing  for  him." 

The  parents  of  Sarah  Griffin  were  not  wealthy ;  they 
made  a  comfortable  living  and  yearly  added  a  little  to 
their  property.  The  father  was  a  mechanic,  and  by 
his  industrious  habits  and  correct  moral  principles,  had 
gained  the  respect  and  confidence  of  all  who  knew  him. 
Whenever  he  undertook  a  piece  of  work  he  was  partic 
ular  to  have  it  faithfully  done,  so  as  to  give  entire  sat 
isfaction  to  his  employers.  By  this  means,  he  was  never 
out  of  work,  and  was  gradually  becoming  independent. 
His  wife  was  prudent  and  industrious.  She  did  not 
follow  the  foolish  fashions  of  the  day,  but  was  neat  in 
her  dress,  having  every  thing  that  was  comfortable 
and  necessary.  Whatever  was  brought  into  the  house 
was  taken  care  of;  nothing  being  wasted  or  destroyed, 
that  would  prove  beneficial  either  to  her  family  or  her 
neighbors  Mrs.  Griffin  never  had  a  desire  to  make  a 
show  in  the  world,  and  to  pass  for  more  than  she  actually 
deserved ;  but  her  ambition  was  to  please  her  husband, 
to  bring  up  her  family  to  industrious  and  virtuous  hab 
its,  and  to  exert  a  good  influence  about  her.  She  lived 
on  the  best  of  terms  with  her  neighbors,  and  never  had 
the  least  unpleasant  feeling  towards  them,  while  they  es 
teemed  her  a  pattern  of  gentleness  and  kindness. 

One  day  as  Sarah  was  looking  from  the  window,  she 
exclaimed,  "  0  mother !  here  comes  that  ragged  beggar 
boy  again ;  do  go  to  the  door  and  see  what  he  wants." 

Mrs.  Griffin  went  to  the  door,  and  presently  the  little 
fellow  made  his  appearance  in  the  kitchen,  where  he 
had  been  invited  by  the  mother.  Sarah  stared  him  iii 


124  A  TALE  OP  MOOSE  ALLEY. 

the  face,  and  with  reluctance  handed  him  a  chair,  where 
he  seated  himself,  holding  his  torn  hat  in  his  hands. 
The  poor  boy  hardly  ventured  to  look  up,  when  he  re 
plied,  "  Joseph  Lanford,"  to  the  question, "  What  is  your 
name?" 

"  Where  do  your  parents  live  ?  "  inquired  Mrs.  Griffin. 

"  In  Moose  Alley." 

"  What  does  your  father  do  ?  " 

"  He  don't  do  any  thing,  he  can't  get  any  thing  to 
do.  He  used  to  work  on  the  wharves  loading  vessels 
and  piling  boards,  but  now  he  can't  get  any  thing  to  do." 

"  How  long  is  it  since  you  have  been  obliged  to  beg 
your  bread  ?  " 

"  All  winter ;  but  I  don't  get  much." 

"  Do  you  attend  school  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am ;  my  clothes  are  not  suitable.  I  did  go 
once  to  Master  Winslow,  but  he  was  so  cross-  and 
whipped  me  so  hard,  that  mother  kept  me  at  home. 
But  I  think  if  I  had  good  clothes,  I  would  go  again  — 
and  perhaps  I  might  learn." 

After  giving  the  poor  boy  a  supply  of  food,  and  ad 
vising  him  to  learn  no  bad  habits,  Mrs.  Griffin  told 
him  that  she  should  call  on  Ms  mother  in  the  course  of 
the  week. 

"  I'm  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  the  poor  boy  with  a 
bow,  appearing  exceedingly  grateful  for  the  lady's  kind 
ness. 

"  I  do  pity  that  boy,"  said  Sarah,  "  for  he  looks  kind 
and  pleasant.  I  wish  he  had  better  clothes." 

"There  is  a  great  deal  of  poverty  about,  and  multi 
tudes  of  children  who  suffer  for  the  necessaries  of  life. 
I  have  no  doubt  the  parents  of  this  boy  are  extremely 
poor,  and  I  shall  call  upon  them." 


A   TALE  OF  MOOSE   ALLEY.  125 

"Mother,  may  I  go  with  you,  when  you.  call  on 
them?" 

"  Yes,  my  child,  if  you  wish  to  go." 

"  And  perhaps  I  can  do  something  for  them.  I  can 
sew  and  knit,  and  assist  them,  I  know." 

A  few  evenings  after,  Mrs.  Griffin,  accompanied  with 
her  daughter,  went  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Lanford. 

Moose  Alley  was  a  narrow  lane,  especially  at  the  head, 
but  it  was  found  without  much  difficulty. 

"  But  how  do  you  know  which  house  to  call  at  ? "  in 
quired  Sarah. 

"  I  don't  know,  but  we  will  inquire." 

At  that  moment  a  gentleman  passed  by,  of  whom 
Mrs.  Griffin  inquired  —  "  Can  you  tell  me  where  a  fam 
ily  by  the  name  of  Lanford  lives  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am,  I  cannot." 

"  Who  lives  in  this  small  black  house  ? " 

"  Mr.  Leach,  the  sexton,"  and  the  man  passed  on. 

"  Inquire  of  Mr.  Leach,  mother,  perhaps  he  can  tell 
you." 

She  knocked  at  the  door,  and  a  tall,  dark-eyed  man 
came,  of  whom  she  made  her  inquiry,  but  she  could 
not  get  the  information  she  desired.  "  There  are  several 
families  who  live  at  the  bottom  of  the  alley,"  said  the 
tall  man,  "  but  I  am  not  acquainted  with  their  names." 

Mrs.  Griffin  passed  down  the  alley,  arid  meeting  a 
little  black  fellow,  who  told  her  his  name  was  George 
Gardner,  she  inquired  for  Mr.  Lanford,  and  was  di 
rected  to  the  house. 

When  she  knocked  at  the  door,  the  little  boy,  Jo 
seph,  came  and  invited  her  and  Sarah  to  walk  in. 

"  Here,  mother,  is  the  lady  I  told  you  about,"  said 
the  boy  ;  "  she  has  now  called  to  see  us." 
11* 


126  A  TALE   OF  MOOSE  ALLEY. 

Mrs.  Lanford  expressed  her  gratitude  for  the  visit, 
and  requested  them  to  be  seated.  The  house  was  very 
old,  and  the  room  but  poorly  furnished,  and  every  thing 
betokened  extreme  poverty. 

"  For  the  last  six  or  eight  months,"  said  the  woman, 
"  my  health  has  been  feeble,  and  my  husband  finding 
but  little  employment,  I  have  been  obliged  to  depend 
upon  others  for  assistance.  Our  neighbors  are  very 
good,  but  most  of  them  are  poor,  and  my  little  boy  has 
been  obliged  to  beg  sometimes.  We  feel  grateful  for 
what  you  have  done  for  us,  but  cannot  repay  your  kind 
ness." 

"  I  liked  the  appearance  of  your  boy,"  said  Mrs. 
Griffin,  "  and  promised  him  I  would  call  and  see  you. 
I  shall  be  pleased  at  any  time  to  render  you  what  assist 
ance  I  am  able." 

"  I  thank  you  kindly ;  I  am  in  hopes  my  husband  will 
obtain  work.  Being  a  laborer,  he  has  scarcely  done  a 
day's  work  the  last  two  months,  but  we  live  in  hopes 
that  times  will  be  better." 

Mrs.  Griffin  had  brought  a  few  little  things  which  she 
gave  to  the  poor  woman,  who  expressed  her  gratitude 
in  tears ;  and  little  Sarah  opened  her  bag  and  drew 
forth  a  .few  dainties  for  Joseph,  who  thanked  her  for  her 
kindness.  Mrs.  Griffin  after  spending  an  agreeable 
hour  with  the  poor  woman,  went  home ;  not,  however, 
until  she  was  strongly  invited  to  call  and  see  them  again. 

"  "What  a  pleasant  woman  Mrs.  Lanford  is,  "  I  should 
like  to  call  at  her  house  very  often." 

"  If  we  could  do  her  any  good,"  said  the  mother,  "  it 
would  be  worth  while  to  call  upon  her." 

"  But  you  gave  her  something." 

"  Yes  —  that  was  but  a  trifle,  however      But  we  will 


A   TALE   OF  MOOSE  ALLEY.  127 

see  if  we  have  not  some  old  clothes  of  your  father's, 
that  will  answer  for  her  son." 

"  And  let  me  carry  them  down  ?  " 

"  You  may  if  I  can  find  any  thing  suitable." 

Mrs.  Griffin  mentioned  the  visit  to  her  husband,  who 
united  with  her  in  endeavoring  to  assist  them,  for  she 
believed  them  to  be  not  only  poor  and  needy,  but  hon 
est  and  industrious.  In  a  few  days  a  suit  of  clothes 
was  made  for  the  boy,  and  Sarah  was  happy  with  the 
thought  of  carrying  them  down.  She  tripped  through 
the  alley  and  the  first  person  she  saw  was  the  black  boy, 
George,  who  smiled  at  her  as  she  passed  along.  Mrs. 
Lanford  was  overjoyed  with  the  present,  and  thanked 
the  little  girl  a  dozen  times  for  the  kindness. 

"  Come,  Joseph,"  said  the  mother,  "  and  see  what  the 
little  girl  has  brought  you  —  a  pair  of  trousers." 

The  little  fellow  looked  at  them  with  astonishment. 
"Are  they  mine,  mother?  did  the  good  lady  send 
them  to  me  ?  Now  I  shall  be  able  to  go  to  school,"  and 
he  thanked  Sarah  for  bringing  them  down.  "  Tell  your 
good  mother,"  continued  the  boy,  "  that  I  hope  to  be 
of  some  use  to  her.  If  she  wants  anybody  to  go  of 
errands,  or  split  her  wood,  or  bring  her  shavings,  tell 
her  I  shall  always  be  happy  to  do  it."  And  pleased 
with  her  visit,  and  the  gratitude  manifested  by  the  fam 
ily,  the  little  girl  ran  home. 

"  I  do  love  to  visit  Mrs.  Lanford,  she  is  so  pleasant," 
said  Sarah  to  her  mother ;  "  and  little  Joseph  says  he 
will  do  any  thing  for  you." 

.  A  number  of  months  passed  away,  and  Mrs.  Griffin 
continued  to  send  food,  or  clothing,  to  the  poor  family 
in  Moose  Alley,  when  one  day,  she  was  informed  by  Mrs. 
Lanford  that  her  husband  had  made  up  his  mind  to  re- 


128  .       A  TALE  OF  MOOSE  ALLEY. 

move  to  Boston,  where  he  thought  he  should  find  em 
ployment  the  year  round,  and  be  able  to  support  his 
little  family.  She  expressed  a  great  deal  of  regret  to 
leave  one  who  had  been  so  kind  to  her  as  Mrs.  Griffin, 
and  said  she  never  should  forget  her  kindness.  Sarah 
and  her  mother  were  sorry  to  lose  the  poor  family,  for 
they  had  become  attached  to  them,  and  felt  a  pleasure  in 
visiting  and  assisting  them.  The  first  packet  that  sailed 
for  Boston  took  the  poor  family,  together  with  the  little 
furniture  they  possessed. 


CHAPTEE    II. 

What  beauty  and  what  heavenly  grace 
Beam  in  a.  virtuous  woman's  face ! 
True  index  of  a  heart  devout ; 
As  pure  within  as  fair  without. 
Methinks  the  holy  angels  vie, 
As  on  a  mission  from  the  sky, 
To  lift  above  her  humble  prayer, 
And  gain  for  it  admission  there.     , 

A  PEW  years  passed,  and  Sarah  left  her  school  to  com 
mence  doing  something  for  herself.  Although  her 
father  was  in  good  circumstances,  it  was  her  choice  to 
learn  a  trade ;  "  I  may  see  the  necessity  of  it,  by  and 
by,"  said  she.  She  chose  to  be  a  mantuamaker,  and  by 
diligence  and  industry,  soon  acquired  it.  Sarah  was  an 
excellent  girl ;  she  was  kind  and  accommodating,  pos 
sessed  a  sweet  temper,  and  was  calculated  to  win  the 
respect  and  love  of  all  who  became  acquainted  with  her. 
She  was  not  beautiful ;  her  beauty  was  centred  in  the 
mind  —  the  true  seat  of  worth  and  excellence.  But, 


A   TALE   OF  MOOSE  ALLEY.  129 

notwithstanding,  there  were  several  who  thought  they 
should  obtain  a  prize,  if  they  could  but  win  the  affections 
of  Miss  Griffin.  In  some  things  she  was  peculiar.  She 
said  but  little  to  those  young  men  who  have  no  steady 
employment  and  strive  to  live  by  their  wits,  or  sponge 
their  bread  from  the  hands  of  honest  industry.  She  la 
bored  herself,  and  she  was  determined,  if  she  was  ever 
married,  to  be  united  to  an  industrious  and  useful  man 
—  one  who  was  not  ashamed  to  work,  providing  the 
employment  was  honorable.  "While  two  or  three  young 
gentlemen,  whose  parents  were  wealthy,  were  constant 
visitors  at  her  house,  there  was  one  whom  they  occa 
sionally  ridiculed  on  account  of  his  peculiar  notions. 
He  had  been  brought  up  with  them,  but  chose  to  keep 
aloof  from  their  company,  when  he  had  a  leisure  hour, 
and  spend  it  in  some  useful  employment.  He  was  a 
young  mechanic,  and  not  unfrequently  visited  the  house 
of  Mr.  Griffin.  Of  all  her  male  acquaintances,  Sarah 
was  more  partial  to  the  mechanic,  Edson  by  name. 
This  was  noticed  by  those  who  thought  themselves  su 
perior  to  him,  and  they  put  forth  their  strongest  efforts 
to  bring  him  into  contempt.  He  never  heeded  their  re 
marks,  but  pursued  his  business,  regardless  alike  of 
their  smiles  or  their  frowns.  When  it  was  a  settled 
point,  that  Sarah  was  to  become  the  happy  wife  of  Ed- 
son,  the  envy  of  the  foppish  and  idle  young  men  was 
excited  to  its  highest  pitch. 

"  She  has  a  singular  taste,"  said  one. 

"  She'll  miss  it,"  said  another. 

"  And  she  is  a  fool,"  said  a  third. 

But  she  knew  her  own  business  best ;  she  had  con 
sulted  her  own  happiness ;  and  the  young  mechanic 
became  the  husband  of  Sarah  Griffin.  It  is  needless  to 


ISO  A  TALE  OF  MOOSE  ALLEY. 

say  they  prospered  —  for  as  certain  as  the  day  succeeds 
the  night,  so  sure  will  prosperity  follow  in  the  train  of 
virtue  and  industry.  They  commenced  life  in  a  humble 
way,  purchased  but  little  furniture,  and  hired  a  small 
house  —  the  very  house,  which  had  been  thoroughly  re 
paired,  once  occupied  by  the  Lanford  family.  Here 
they  lived  pleasantly  and  happily.  Edson,  being  a  good 
mechanic,  had  as  much  work  as  he  could  attend  to.  In 
a  few  years  after  his  marriage,  he  had  saved  enough 
from  his  earnings  to  purchase  the  house  in  which  he  re 
sided.  Although  it  was  not  so-  pleasantly  situated,  still 
it  was  convenient  for  him,  and  with  peace  of  mind,  true 
contentment,  and  an  affectionate  wife,  it  was  his  para 
dise.  But  this  happiness  was  not  long  to  last.  That 
insidious  disease,  consumption,  which  yearly  sweeps  off 
so  many  of  our  citizens,  seized  the  frame  of  Edson,  and 
his  constitution  bowed  to  its  mandate.  He  was  sensi 
ble  that  he  could  not  live  —  that  his  present  sickness 
would  be  his  last ;  but  he  was  resigned.  He  had  placed 
his  hopes  in  a  better  world.  It  was  hard  to  leave  his 
wife  and  only  child,  but  he  knew  that  He  who  taketh 
care  of  the  sparrows  would  not  suffer  them  to  come  to 
want  —  His  care  would  be  over  them  still.  And  the 
good  man  died  — died  in  faith  and  triumph.  But 

"  When  such  friends  part,  'tis  the  survivor  dies." 

It  was  so  in  this  case.  Sarah  suffered  in  mind,  but 
she  looked  above  the  earth  for  comfort  and  consolation. 
The  thought  that  at  some  future  time  she  should  be  re 
united  to  her  husband  gave  her  peace,  and  in  some  meas 
ure  abated  the  waters  of  affliction  that  rolled  over  her. 

Mrs.  Edson  continued  to  reside  in  the  house  bought 
by  her  husband,  and  by  taking  care  of  the  little  property 


A  TALE  OF  MOOSE  ALLEY.  131 

left  at  his  decease ^  and  working  more  or  less  at  her  trade 
she  was  enabled  to  live  comfortably  and  pleasantly. 

Sarah  had  been  a  widow  something  like  three  years, 
when  on  one  summer  day,  as  she  was  sitting  by  the 
open  window,  she  observed  a  stranger  pass,  looking 
rather  thoughtfully  at  her  house.  He  went  by,  and  see 
ing  her,  turned  and  inquired,  "  Can  you  tell  me  what 
became  of  the  family  that  lived  in  yonder  black  house 
some  twenty  odd  years  ago  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  cannot,"  said  Sarah,  "  for  I  have  lived 
here  but  six  or  eight  years.  What  was  the  name  of 
the  family  ? " 

"  Gardner ;  there  was  one  member,  a  boy  then,  who 
appeared  to  be  a  fine  fellow.  His  name  was  George." 

"  Oh,  I  do  remember  him.  He  died  a  great  many 
years  ago,  when  quite  a  youth.  I  have  heard  him 
spoken  of  by  many  of  his  old  playmates  as  a  very  ex 
emplary  boy." 

"  Is  he  dead  ?  I  have  played  with  him  for  many  an. 
hour,  and  though  he  possessed  a  dark  skin,  a  kinder 
and  better  boy  never  lived." 

"  Did  you  formerly  reside  in  this  place  ?  " 

"  I  did,  but  it  is  many  years  since." 

As  the  stranger  seemed  anxious  to  make  inquiries, 
he  was  invited  to  step  in,  and  gladly  accepted  the  invi 
tation. 

"  I  perceive  many  changes,"  he  continued,  "  since  I 
was  here  before.  What  has  become  of  the  old  sexton 
who  lived  in  the  black  house  at  the  head  of  the  alley  ?  " 

"  He  is  also  dead." 

"  And  his  sons  ?  " 

"  They  dropped  off  one  after  another,  and  not  one  of 
them,  I  believe,  is  left." 


132  A  TALE  OP  MOOSE  ALLEY. 

"  And  where's  the  merry  shoemaker*who  kept  below  ? " 

"  He  is  gone  also." 

"There  was  the  S family,  the  H 's,  the 

M 's,  and  I  forget  how  many  more  who  formerly 

lived  in  this  neighborhood.  Are  any  of  them  living  ? " 

"  Yes ;  some  of  them  are  alive,  but  where  they  re 
side,  I  cannot  tell." 

"  But  there  is  one  family  I  feel  particularly  interested 
in,  of  whom  I  have  thought  many  and  many  a  time 
since  I  left  Portland ;  but  you  probably  don't  know 
them.  The  name  was  Griffin." 

Sarah  was  struck  with  astonishment.  "  You  cannot 
mean  the  Griffin  who  formerly  resided  on Street  ?  " 

"  The  same ;  where  are  they  ?  and  what  has  become 
of  their  daughter,  Sarah  ?  Do  you  know  her  ?  " 

"  I  am  their  daughter." 

"  Gracious  heavens !  can  it  be  possible  ?  "  and  he  ex 
tended  his  hand,  saying,  "  My  name  is  Lanford ;  I  am 
the  poor  beggar  boy  that  you  felt  so  much  interest  in 
years  ago,"  and  tears  of  joy  checked  his  utterance. 

After  a  few  moments  of  silence,  the  young  man  re 
lated  to  Sarah  the  principal  incidents  in  his  life.  When 
his  parents  removed  to  Boston,  they  were  as  poor  as 
they  could  be,  but  his  father  got  work  and  prospered. 
When  Joseph  was  old  enough,  he  went  to  a  trade, 
completed  his  apprenticeship,  and  commenced  trading 
for  himself.  He  was  now  doing  a  good  business,  and 
felt  anxious  once  more  to  see  his  native  place,  and 
converse  with  those  friends  with  whom,  years -before, 
he  associated.  For  two  or  three  hours  did  Sarah  and 
her  friend  converse  upon  the  past,  and  when  he  left, 
he  promised  faithfully  to  call  and  see  her  again. 

Lanford  remained  but  a  few  weeks  in  the  city,  and 


A  TALE  OF  MOOSE  ALLEY.  133 

when  he  left  for  Boston,  Sarah  had  become  his  wife. 
They  now  live  happily  together. 

Lanford  is  doing  an  excellent  business,  and  has  pros 
pered  beyond  his  most  sanguine  expectations.  Once  a 
year  they  visit  their  friends  in  Portland,  and  we  often 
hear  the  remark,  when  referring  to  old  times,  and 
bringing  to  mind  the  playmates  of  our  youth  —  "Lan 
ford  has  turned  out  well.  From  a  poor,  destitute  boy, 
.by  industry  and  integrity,  he  has  amassed  a  large  prop 
erty,  and  is  respected  and  beloved  by  all  who  know 
him." 

12 


WIDOW  AND  SON. 


CHAPTER    I. 

Oh,  let  me  die  the  death  of  those 

Who  calmly  sink  to  rest, 
Like  placid  summer  evening's  close, 

That  fades  so  gently  in  the  west. 
With  not  a  pain,  with  not  a  care, 

To  ruffle  life's  decline, 
But  soft  as  dews  of  heaven  are, 

Oh,  be  the  last  repose  of  mine. 
As  gently  as  the  voices  fall, 

Of  seraphs  on  the  ear, 
Be  the  commissioned  angel's  call  — 

As  soft,  as  melting,  and  as  clear. 

"LISTEN  to  me,  Henry,  and  do  not  indulge  the 
thought  of  leaving  your  place,  True,  you  may  do  bet 
ter,  but  there  are  ten  chances  to  one  that  you  will  not 
succeed  as  well  —  that  you  will  bitterly  regret  it  in  the 
end." 

"  I  am  so  confined,  mother,  that  I  don't  like  to  stay 
with  Mr.  Walker.  I  should  rather  go  to  sea.  You 
know  I  always  had  a  desire  to  see  the  world ;  and  I  told 
you  I  did  not  think  I  should  stay,  when  you  put  me  to  a 
trade." 

"You  have  been  there  some  time,  are  acquainted 
with  the  family,  and  your  master  is  a  good  man  and  ap 
pears  to  be  attached  to  you.  " 


WIDOW  AND   SON.  135 

"  But  I  cannot  stay.  I  am  determined  to  go  to  sea, 
and  you  may  as  well  give  me  your  consent." 

"  That  I  can  never  do,  Henry.  You  are  my  only  child, 
and  to  have  you  follow  the  sea  would  be  as  severe  an 
affliction  as  could  happen  to  me." 

Henry  Norton  lost  his  father  at  an  early  age ;  and  the 
care  of  an  only  son  fell  upon  one  of  the  best  of  wo 
men.  His  mother  was  kind  and  benevolent,  and  a  pat 
tern  of  industry.  Having  been  left  with  but  little, 
property  on  the  death  of  her  husband,  by  taking  in 
work,  she  was  enabled  to  live  comfortably,  enjoying  all 
the  necessaries  of  life.  Henry  was  a  good  boy,  but 
rather  too  headstrong,  and  when  bent  upon  pursuing 
any  course,  it  was  a  difficult  matter  to  turn  his  mind. 
At  an  early  age,  Mrs.  Norton  placed  her  son,  as  an  ap 
prentice,  to  a  worthy  mechanic,  and  for  the  first  year  or 
two  Henry  was  contented  and  happy.  But  an  associate 
of  his  had  obtained  the  consent  of  his  parents  to  follow 
the  sea,  which  at  once  unsettled  the  mind  of  the  ap 
prentice  and  made  him  discontented  with  his  place.  He 
had  often  endeavored  to  get  his  mother's  consent  to  leave 
Mr.  Walker  and  go  with  his  companion,  but  the  good 
woman  would  not  hear  a  word  about  it.  Finally,  see 
ing  the  determination  of  her  son,  she  made  known  to 
him  her  feelings.  But  Henry  was  resolute. 

"  If  you  do  not  give  your  consent,"  said  he,  "  I  will 
run  away." 

"  Remember,"  said  his  mother,  "  the  consequences  of 
disobedience  to  parents.  If  you  should  so  far  forget  me 
and  disregard  my  feelings,  perhaps  it  may  be  a  thorn  in 
your  flesh  the  rest  of  your  days.  I  have  told  you  re 
peatedly  that  I  can  never  give  my  consent  for  you  to 
follow  the  sea.  If  you  ever  go,  it  will  be  contrary  to 


WIDOW  AND   SON. 

the  express  wish  of  your  mother,  and  God  will  never 
bless  you." 

"Well,  I  don't  care,  I  will  go  to  sea,  if  I  can  get 
away,  whether  you  give  your  consent  or  not,"  said  the 
stubborn  boy,  leaving  the  house. 

A  day  or  two  after,  Mrs.  Norton  heard  from  Mr. 
Walker  that  her  son  had  run  away  from  his  place,  and 
shipped  on  board  a  vessel  and  before  he  was  apprised  of 
it,  had  sailed.  The  poor  woman  burst  into  tears,  and 
wrung  her  hands,  exclaiming,  "  What  shall  I  do  ? '  Oh ! 
how  can  I  bear  this  affliction  ?  "  And  it  was  a  long 
time  before  she  could  be  comforted.  She  thought  how 
poorly  her  son  was  clad  —  of  the  privations  and  dan 
gers  of  the  sea  —  of  the  company  of  profane  men  on 
board  the  ship,  with  none  to  counsel  or  advise  him  — 
and  she  was  sad  indeed  for  many  a  day.  She  had  no 
heart  to  work,  lost  her  usual  vivacity,  and  her  neigh 
bors  pronounced  her  in  a  decline.  However,  the  poig 
nancy  of  her  grief  wore  away,  although  she  never  ceased 
to  think  of  her  erring  boy. 

After  a  twelvemonth  had  passed,  the  vessel  returned ; 
but  to  open  afresh  her  lacerated  heart,  Mrs.  Norton  was 
informed  that  her  son  had  left  the  brig  in  a  foreign 
port,  and  it  was  uncertain  what  vessel  he  had  shipped 
on  board.  Those  who  have  a  mother's  feelings,  and 
those  alone,  can  realize  the  sorrows  of  her  heart.  Per 
haps  her.  son  was  dead,  or,  if  alive,  in  the  company  of 
the  vile  and  unprincipled,  or  it  may  be  that  he  was  suf 
fering  from  disease,  with  no  kind  hand  to  administer  to 
his  wants.  Such  feelings  burdened  her  soul,  and  gave 
her  anguish  inexpressible. 

Another  year  passed  and  not  a  word  had  been  heard 
respecting  Henry.  Mrs.  Norton,  true  to  a  mother's 


WIDOW  AND   SON.  137 

love,  had  made  up  various  things  for  him,  should  he  ever 
return,  and  what  little  she  earned,  beside  what  was  suf 
ficient  for  her  own  support,  was  treasured  for  his  ben 
efit.  But  her  son  came  not.  Year  after  year  passed 
by,  and  no  tidings  of  her  boy  came  to  her  ears.  She 
finally  gave  up  all  hope  of  seeing  him,  presuming  he 
had  come  to  his  end  in  a' foreign  port,  among  strangers. 
But  Mrs.  Norton  continued  to  work  for  a  support,  till 
she  was  induced  by  a  friend  to  give  up  housekeeping, 
and  reside  with  her,  where  she  should  do  but  little,  and 
enjoy  herself  in  her  declining  days. 

It  was  upwards  of  twenty  years  since  Henry  left  his 
mother,  and  no  one  supposed  that  he  would  ever  be 
heard  from  again.  In  fact,  but  few  remembered  the 
boy ;  and  the  circumstance  of  his  leaving  was  treasured 
only  in  the  breast  of  the  mother,  and  the  few  friends 
with  whom  she  was  intimate.  Mrs.  Norton  had  grown 
old.  The  afflictions  of  her  early  years  —  the  loss  of 
the  best  of  husbands  and  an  only  son,  the  idol  of  her 
heart,  had  so  worn  upon  her  spirits,  that  she  seemed  but 
a  wreck  of  humanity.  Still  she  looked  up  to  God  in 
thankfulness  for  the  blessings  she  enjoyed,  and  was  ever 
striving  against  sin,  and  endeavoring  to  live  the  life  of 
a  Christian.  Threescore  years  had  passed  away,  and 
the  good  woman  was  taken  sick.  It  was  evident  to  her 
physician,  and  to  all  who  saw  her,  that  her  sands  had 
nearly  run  out,  that  death  was  fast  approaching.  She 
was  told  that  she  would  probably  never  recover.  But 
death  had  no  terrors  for  her.  She  had  always  lived  a 
consistent,  Christian  life,  and  now  said  —  "I  am  going 
to  my  Father  and  my  God.'' 

"  Have  you  no  desire  to  live  ?  "  inquired  her  friend. 

"Not  the  least.  My  Saviour  is  waiting  to  receive 
12* 


WIDOW  AND  SON. 

me.  The  thought  that  I  shall  see  my  Maker  and  enjoy 
his  presence  forever,  gives  me  joy  that  I  find  it  utterly 
impossible  for 'me  to  express." 

Seeing  her  friend  weeping  by  her  side,  the  dying  wo 
man  said,  "  Do  not  weep  because  I  go ;  it  will  not  be 
long  before  you  will  meet  me  in  heaven.  Oh,  how 
blessed  it  is  to  die !  " 

Full  of  praise,  and  without  a  seeming  doubt  of  a 
happy  state  beyond  the  grave,  Mrs.  Norton,  after  linger 
ing  a  few  weeks,  fell  asleep  in  Jesus.  Her  last  words 
were  —  "  Come,  Lord  Jesus,  come  quickly." 

Everybody  who  knew  this  good  lady  loved  her.  The 
old  and  the  young  surrounded  her  bed  while  she  lin 
gered,  catching  the  heavenly  strains  that  fell  from  her 
lips.  Her  little  property  was  left  to  the  marine  society 
for  the  benefit  of  the  poor  sailors. 


CHAPTER    II. 

What  is  your  life  ?    A  vapor's  breath— 

The  passing  of  a  cloud  at  morn ; 
You  smile,  you  weep,  lie  down  with  death : 

The  traveller  of  a  night  is  gone. 

WHEN  Henry  Norton  parted  from  his  mother,  he 
came  to  the  determination  to  leave  Mr.  Walker  and  fol 
low  the  sea.  The  first  opportunity  that  presented,  he 
shipped  on  board  a  vessel,  and,  without  informing  his 
master,  sailed  for  a  foreign  port.  Every  thing  was  new 
to  him  on  board  the  vessel,  and  it  was  some,  time  before 
he  was  able  to  take  hold  and  work  like  the  rest  of  the 
crew.  He  experienced  that  unpleasant  sickness  so 


WIDOW  AND   SON.  139 

common  to  fresh  hands ;  but  when  fully  recovered,  he 
was  as  hearty  and  active  as  any  of  the  crew.  Before 
he  had  reached  his  destined  port,  however,  he  found 
that  sea-faring  life  was  not  what  he  had  anticipated  on 
shore.  Watching  by  night,  in  the  storm  and  cold,  and 
continually  exposed  to  the  weather  in  all  seasons,  made 
him  regret  more  than  once  that  he  had  left  a  pleasant 
trade  and  a  kind  master.  Above  all,  he  regretted  most 
bitterly  that  he  had  disobeyed  his  kind  parent,  and. 
pursued  a  course  which  he  knew  must  fill  her  soul  with 
sorrow. 

When  the  vessel  reached  her  destined  port,  the  young 
sailor  went  ashore  with  the  crew,  and  in  a  round  of 
pleasure  forgot  his  serious  emotions.  He  had  learned 
the  follies  and  the  vices  of  the  sailors,  and  would  drink 
and  swear  as  heedlessly  as  the  most  abandoned.  The 
vessel  being  bound  home,  Henry  abandoned  her,  and 
shipped  on  board  another.  He  felt  ashamed  of  his 
course  and  conduct,  and  was  determined  not  to  return 
at  present.  Henry  was  soon  upon  the  ocean  again,  but 
had  not  been  out  many  days  before  the  vessel  experi 
enced  a  severe  gale.  The  captain  thought  it  was  not 
possible  for  the  ship  to  live,  the  wind  was  so  tremendous, 
and  the  waves  'beat  over  them  with  so  much  fury.  One 
poor  fellow  was  washed  from  the  deck  into  the  sea,  and 
was  never  seen  again.  '  However,  the  storm  abated,  and 
the  craft  survived,  with  the  exception  of  the  loss  of  one 
or  two  of  her  sails.  Our  young  seaman  had  never  be 
fore  seen  a  storm  at  sea,  and  he  was  terribly  frightened. 
He  wished  a  thousand  times  that  he  had  obeyed  his  par 
ent  and  continued  Ms  trade.  When  a  fellow-sailor  — 
one  with  whom  Henry  had  been  intimate  —  was  swept 
instantly  away,  and  launched  into  eternity,  it  affected 


140  WIDOW  AND   SON. 

him  to  tears.  But  when  the  storm  ceased,  and  the  ves 
sel  moved  on  smoothly  as  before,  he  forgot  his  danger, 
and  was  as  lively  and  as  careless  as  ever. 

For  ten  years  Henry  was  a  rover  upon  the  seas,  seldom 
remaining  on  land  but  a  few  days  at  a  time,  and  con 
triving  in  that  short  space  to  spend  his  hard-earned 
money.  During  all  this  period  he  barely  clothed  him 
self,  without  laying  by  a  single  copper  for  his  own  use 
or  to  assist  his  poor  mother.  Having  arrived  in  a  ves 
sel  within  a  hundred  miles  of  his  native  place,  he  re 
solved  to  take  the  stage  and  see  his  mother.  It  was  the 
first  time,  since  he  left  home,  that  he  had  come  to  this 
conclusion.  Arriving  in  town  at  the  close  of  day,  he  bent 
his  steps  towards  the  cot  his  mother  occupied  ten  years 
before.  As  he  approached  the  house,  he  saw  a  glimmer 
ing  light  from  the  window,  and  curiosity  prompted  him 
to  look  in.  There  sat  his  poor  mother,  intent  upon  her 
work ;  he  knew  her  as  soon  as  he  cast  his  eye  towards 
her,  but  his  heart  misgave  him.  His  error  rose  up 
before  him,  and  the  thought  of  his  vicious  life,  and  the 
manner  in  which  he  squandered  all  his  money,  not  pos 
sessing  a  single  dollar  to  bestow  upon  his  kind  mother, 
made  him  resolve  to  go  no  further.  The  calm,  sweet 
look  of  his  parent,  as  she  bent  over  her  work,  would 
not  suffer  him  to  intrude.  With  no  money,  with  no 
character,  to  come  before  her  was  more  than  he  could 
bear.  Perhaps  she  would  sink  under  the  thought,  and 
it  would  destroy  the  little  happiness  she  seemed  now  to 
partake.  The"  sailor  wept  and  turned  away.  Again  he 
returned,  and  looked  once  more  upon  his  dear  mother, 
and  sank  down  in  grief.  In  a  moment,  he  was  gone, 
and  the  next  day  he  was  on  his  journey  to  the  vessel  he 
had  left.  From  that  hour,  Henry  was  an  altered  man. 


WIDOW  AND   SON.  141 

ETe  had  seen  his  mother,  and  while  looking  upon  her 
pleasant  countenance,  he  resolved  to  be  a  better  man 
—  never  to  swear  again,  but  to  go  away  and  take  care 
of  his  money,  and  return,  a  son  worthy  of  such  a  wo 
man.  He  determined  to  save  all  his  earnings,  that  the 
latter  days  of  his  parent  might  be  cheered  by  his  smiles, 
his  virtuous  conduct,  and  his  prosperity.  It  was  ex 
ceedingly  difficult  for  Henry  to  overcome  his  bad  hab 
its,  but  hard  as  it  was,  he  conquered  them.  He  never 
drank  again,  and  an  oath  was  never  heard  to  pollute  his 
lips.  He  was  frugal  and  industrious,  and  strove  to  do 
his  duty.  From  a  common  sailor  he  rose  by  degrees, 
till  he  commanded  as  fine  a  vessel  as  ever  whitened  the 
seas.  Yet  he  toiled  on,  accumulating  money,  till  in  the 
course  of  eight  or  ten  years  from  the  time  he  saw  his 
mother,  he  was  the  owner  of  a  beautiful  vessel..  We 
will  not  follow  Captain  Norton  through  his  voyages,  nor 
recount  the  many  dangers  he  escaped,  nor  the  ship 
wrecks  and  trials  he  encountered.  He  was  a  superior 
officer  and  a  real  gentleman. 

Once  more,  with  a  light  heart,  he  was  bending  his 
course  towards  his  native  place,  which,  ten  years  before, 
he  had  left  under  peculiarly  distressing  circumstances. 
He  arrived  there  in  the  morning,  and  putting  on  his 
best  clothes,  started  for  the  dwelling  of  his  mother. 
He  was  on  the  point  of  lifting  the  latch  and  walking 
in,  when  the  thought  struck  him  thatx<  perhaps  his 
mother  might  have  removed.  He  rapped  at  the  door,  and 
a  stranger  came.  On  inquiry  for  Mrs.  Norton,  Henry 
was  told  they  knew  of  no  such  woman;  they  having 
resided  there  for  about  three  months  only.  The  thought 
struck  him  that  he  had  better  call  at  the  house  of  his 
old  master ;  and  on  going  round  he  passed  the  grave- 


142  WIDOW  AND   SON. 

yard.  Curiosity  prompted  him  to  enter.  On  many  a 
stone  he  read  a  familiar  name ;  many  had  been  sleep 
ers  there  for  years,  whom  he  supposed  were  living,  ac 
tive  beings.  After  wandering  about  the  tombs  for  up 
wards  of  an  hour,  he  saw  a  funeral  procession  enter. 
He  walked  to  the  new-made  grave,  waiting  pensively  for 
the  approach  of  the  dead.  But  a  few  followed.  The 
coffin  was  laid  beside  the  grave,  and  Henry  stepped  for 
ward  to  read  the  inscription.  It  was  —  "  Mary  Norton, 
died  May  4,  1840,  aged  60  years." 

"  Oh !  my  mother !  my  mother !  "  —  the  captain  ex 
claimed,  falling  prostrate  on  the  coffin. 

The  little  group,  being  astonished  beyond  measure, 
instantly  raised  him  from  the  abode  of  the  dead,  and 
discovered  that  life  was  extinct.  The  poor  man  had 
died  of  a  broken  heart. 

From  the  papers  found  in  his  pocket,  and  from  his 
general  features,  it  was  ascertained  that  he  was  the  long- 
lost  son  of  the  widow.  In  a  few  days  his  body  was 
placed  beside  the  grave  of  his  mother.  But  few  dry 
eyes  were  present. 


THE  OLD  KEY. 


Thy  modest  virtue  and  thy  grace 

How  dearly  do  I  prize ! 
The  very  soul  of  loveliness 

Beams  in  thy  sparkling  eyes. 

MARY  JOHNSON  was  a  plain,  modest,  unassuming  girl 
of  fifteen  years ;  and  poor,  of  course,  as  all  modest  fe 
males  are.  Her  parents  lived  in  a  small  house,  and  by 
industry  and  economy  made  a  comfortable  living.  In 
the  neighborhood  were  many  wealthy  females,  who  were 
proud  and  fashionable,  and  therefore  took  but  little  no 
tice  of  the  Johnsons.  Occasionally,  Mary  would  asso 
ciate  with  the  children  of  her  neighbors,  but  seldom  re 
ceived  an  invitation  to  visit  them  at  their  houses. 
There  was  one  young  lady,  however,  who  seemed  ex 
tremely  fond  of  Mary,  and  although  her  parents  moved 
in  a  higher  circle,  and  never  visited  the  Johnsons,  yet 
she  was  often  found  in  the  humble  tenement  with  her 
companion.  Mary  was  often  invited  to  her  house,  and 
was  kindly  treated.  Ellen  Jameson  loved  her  on  ac 
count  of  the  good  qualities  of  her  heart.  Mary  was 
kind,  sweet-tempered,  and  perfectly  amiable.  But 
among  her  neighbors  there  were  those  who  treated 
her  with  much  indifference,  if  not  contempt,  and  they 
would  take  pains  to  let  her  see  the  bad  feeling  of  their 
hearts.  Mary  paid  but  little  attention  to  what  they 


144  THE  OLD   KEY. 

said  or  did ;  minded  her  own  business,  worked  for  her 
mother,  and  improved  her  leisure  hours,  not  in  writing 
silly  letters  to  the  beaux,  and  reading  the  trashy  novels 
of  the  day,  but  in  perusing  valuable  works,  or  attend 
ing  to  some  useful  branch  of  study. 

"When  Mary  was  about  sixteen  years  of  age,  a  gen 
tleman  by  the  name  of  Aubert,  reputed  to  be  wealthy, 
paid  a  visit  to  his  relations  in  the  neighborhood.  Dur 
ing  his  visit,  the  young  ladies  of  fashion  had  sev 
eral  parties,  to  each  of  which  the  stranger  was  in- 
'vited.  Aubert  was  about  thirty-five  years  of  age,  and 
possessed  the  elements  of  a  real  gentleman.  He  was 
not  haughty,  and  knew  well  what  belonged  to  good 
manners.  A  short  time  before  he  left  the  village,  it 
was  Ellen  Jameson's  turn  to  invite  company,  and,  of 
course,  she  had  her  modest  friend,  Mary  Johnson, 
among  the  number.  The  poor  girl  had  never  before 
been  introduced  to  the  stranger  —  she  being  the  only 
female  in  the  place,  who  had  not  found  an  opportunity 
of  conversing  with  the  accomplished  Aubert.  During 
the  evening,  but  few  noticed  the  humble  Mary,  who  en 
joyed  herself  as  well  as  she  could.  Occasionally,  she 
would  notice  the  haughty  look  and  contemptuous  smile 
of  some  of  her  neighbors,  who  had  elegant  and  fashion 
able  dresses,  and  sometimes  a  remark  not  very  pleasant 
would  reach  her  ear. 

"  I  should  not  have  come  here,"  said  one,  "  if  I  had 
known  one  of  the  Johnsons  was  invited." 

"  I  like  to  keep  better  company,"  said  another. 

"  It  is  provoking,"  said  a  third,  in  which  remark  all 
appeared  to  concur,  excepting  Ellen,  who  did  not  happen 
to  hear  the  conversation. 

Before  the  company  broke  up  that  evening,  Aubert 


.THE  OLD  KEY.  145 

stated  that  on  the  morrow  he  should  depart  from  the 
village,  and  perhaps  should  never  see  any  of  them  again. 
"  I  have  passed  a  pleasant  season  among  you,"  said  he, 
"  and  I  shall  always  look  back  with  pleasure  to  the  time 
I  have  spent  here.  Before  I  go,  I  wish  to  leave  you  all 
something  as  a  token  of  my  regard  —  a  trifling  present. 
But  in  the  first  place,  young  ladies,  I  wish  to  ask  you 
all  a  simple  question  which  I  trust  you  will  gratify  me 
in  answering." 

All  the  girls  at  once  consented. 

"  The  question  I  wish  you  to  answer  is  —  "What  do 
you  most  desire  in  life  ?  That  which  you  think  will  af 
ford  you  the  most  happiness  ?  Now,"  he  continued,  "  I 
wish  you  each  would  answer  this  question  on  a  slip  of 
paper,  and  leave  it  with  our  friends  here  to-morrow,  and 
before  I  depart,  you  will  each  receive  in  return,  a  tri 
fling  present." 

The  girls  were  pleased  with  the  idea,  for  they  all 
respected  the  gentleman,  and  on  the  morrow  each  one 
left  her  answer  to  the  question.  One  wrote  "  Riches," 
another  "  Beauty,"  another  "  Accomplishments,"  and 
so  on.  But  Mary  Johnson  being  singular  in  her  choice, 
wrote,  "  Modesty  and  Virtue." 

Aubert  departed  that  day,  and  left  presents  for  all 
the  females  who  wrote  answers  to  his  question.  To 
one  he  gave  a  watch,  to  another  a  chain,  to  a  third  a 
ring,  etc.,  but  to  the  modest  Mary  he  left  nothing  but 
a  common  key. 

When  it  was  whispered  about  the  neighborhood  that 

each  one  had  received  a  present,  the  fashionable  girls 

had  a  hearty  laugh  over  poor  Mary's.      "  Yes,"  said 

they,  "  she  thought  by  her  silly  answer  that  she  should 

13 


146  THE  OLD  KEY. 

• 

receive  the  handsomest  present,  but  she  got  nothing 
but  an  old  rusty  key.  It  was  all  she  deserved." 

But  Ellen  Jameson  told  her  friend  that  she  was  wel 
come  to  her  own  present ;  for  she  felt  grieved  that  she 
should  be  slighted  more  than  the  rest.v 

"I  am  perfectly  satisfied,"  said  Mary;  "I  did  not 
expect  much,  and  I  assure  you,  the  key  is  as  good  a 
token  of  remembrance  as  I  could  have.  I  shall  never 
be  tempted  to  part  with  this ;.  'tis  of  so  little  worth  that 
no  one  will  dasire  it." 

"  But  you  know  how  our  neighbors  feel  about  it.  It 
pleases  them  much." 

"  You  also  know,  Ellen,  that  if  I  had  been  presented 
with  a  gold  watch,  it  would  have  excited  their  envy,  and 
they  would  have  made  more  unpleasant  remarks  than 
they  possibly  can  do  about  the  key." 

"  True,  and  I  am  glad  you  feel  so  pleasant  about  it ; 
but  I  confess  I  was  disappointed  and  sorry  when  I 
heard  what  had  been  left  for  you." 

Mary  continued  to  pursue  her  course  in  an  humble 
way,  and  although  her  neighbors  laughed  a  great  deal 
about  her  present  being  an  old  rusty  key,  she  heeded 
them  not,  but  minded  her  own  business.  It  was  Mary's 
ambition  to  earn  her  own  living,  to  do  all  the  good  she 
could,  and  exert  a  happy  influence  around  her.  She 
was  devotedly  attached  to  Ker  parents,  and  when  they 
were  ill,  all  her  endeavors  were  put  forth  to  alleviate 
their  sufferings. 

Year  after  year  passed  on,  bringing  various  changes 
in  the  neighborhood.  A  few  of  Mary's  companions 
were  married,  while  the  remainder  were  still  living  in 
hope,  but  as  yet  no  one  had  offered  his  hand  to  the 
humble  girl.  Had  wealth  been  showered  upon  her,  had 


THE  OLD  KEY.  147 

her  parents  moved  in  the  fashionable  circles,  she  would 
have  found  a  dozen  suitors.  But  no ;  she  was  a  hard 
working,  poor,  and  industrious  girl,  whose  highest  am 
bition  was  to  do  good  and  promote  the  welfare  of  her 
parents,  and  make  those  around  her  happy. 

It  was  now  a  dozen  years  since  the  visit  of  Aubert 
to  the  village.  A  great  many  had  forgotten  the  circum 
stance  of  the  question  and  the  presents.  But  occasion 
ally  the  fact  that  Mary  Johnson  was  presented  with  a 
rusty  key,  was  kept  alive  by  those  who  styled  them 
selves  the  "first  classes,"  in  the  neighborhood. 

A  young  man  by  the  name  of  Derby  had  but  re 
cently  removed  into  the  village,  and  commenced  trad 
ing.  He  was  poor,  and  while  so  was  modest  and  hum 
ble.  He  was  thought  but  little  of  by  the  wealthy,  from 
the  fact  that  he  had  no  property  j  and  was  intimate  at 
the  house  of  Mr.  Johnson.  It  was  said  that  he  had  en 
gaged  himself  to  Mary,  and  there  was  good  foundation 
for  the  report.  While  matters  were  in  this  train,  his 
business  began  to  increase  and  Derby  was  very  .success 
ful  in  many  of  his  trades.  In  two  or  three  years,  he 
had  collected  quite  a  handsome  property.  "When  it 
was  circulated  in  the  village  that  Derby  was  "  well  to 
do  in  the  world,"  the  rich  girls  courted  his  society,  and 
by  degrees,  so  turned  his  affections  from  poor  Mary, 
that  he  finally  left  her  for  the  company  of  her  wealthy 
neighbors.  Mary  was  grieved  to  the  heart  at  the  con 
duct  of  one  in  whom  she  had  placed  implicit  confidence, 
and  to  whom  she  had  always  been  kind  and  agreeable. 
"But  the  poor  girl  did  not  reproach  him,  or  threaten  to 
revenge  him,  or  her  neighbors,  but  bore  her  affliction 
with  a  true  womanly  spirit.  If  this  is  his  disposition, 
she  thought,,  it  is  lucky  he  has  left  me.  If  he  does  not 


148  THE  OLD  KEY. 

love  me,  why  should  I  wish  longer  to  cultivate  his  ac 
quaintance  ?  It  is  better  for  me  to  suffer  a  little  now 
than  to  endure  a  lifetime  of  sorrow.  Glorious  girl !  we 
wish  there  were  ten  thousand  like  her  in  the  world. 

Within  a  year  after  Derby's  cruel  treatment  to  Mary, 
lie  was  married  to '  the  daughter  'of  one  of  the  most 
wealthy  men  in  the  place  —  to  the  very  girl  who,  so 
many  years  before,  had  said  the  most  she  desired  in  life 
was  riches.  We  need  not  say.  there  was  little  real  affec 
tion  existing  between  the  newly  married  couple ;  that  the 
reader  will  surmise.  With  them  the  greatest  enjoyment 
of  life  consisted  in  the  accumulation  of  dollars  and  cents, 
and  the  carrying  out  of  the  fashions  of  the  day.  It 
was  said  by  those  who  knew  the  parties  best,  that  their 
house  presented  any  thing  but  scenes  of  love  and 
kindness.  Happiness  was  a  word  neither  of  them  could 
Comprehend. 

About  this  time,  the  death  of  Aubert,  the  gentleman 
of  reputed  wealth,  was  announced  in  the  neighborhood. 
He  had  made  his  will,  one  clause  of  which  ran  some 
thing  like  the  following :  "  The  large  iron  trunk  which 
has  remained  for  years  in  my  private  room,  I  desire  to 

be  forwarded  to  the  village  of ,  and  to  be  presented 

to  the  lady,  if  living,  who  has  a  key  that  will  unlock  it." 
The  trunk,  with  a  copy  of  the  will,  had  been  forwarded 
to  a  gentleman  in  the  neighborhood,  with  the  necessary 
instructions.  After  a  few  inquiries,  he  learned  that 
Mary  Johnson  had,  years  before,  been  presented  with 
an  old  rusty  key.  He  hastened  to  her,  and  made  known 
the  death  of  Aubert,  and  the  clause  in  his  will  respect 
ing  the  key.  Full  of  surprise,  she  ran  to  her  drawer 
and  produced  the  key.  The  gentleman  immediately 
employed  a  carter-  to  bring  the  trunk.  The  key  fitted 
it  exactly. 


-  THE  OLD   KEY.  1.49 

"  Miss  Johnson,"  said  the  gentleman,  "  I  know  not 
the  contents  of  the  trunk.  It  is  yonrs.  For  your  sake 
and  your  parents',  I  trust  it  contains  something  of 
value."  So  saying,  he  left  the  house. 

As  soon  as  her  father  came  home,  Mary  related  what 
had  transpired,  showing  him  the  present,  and  desiring 
him  to  look  into  it. 

The  old  gentleman  unlocked  the  trunk,  when  lo ! 
gold  coins  and  rare  jewels  presented  themselves  to  the 
astonished  gaze  of  the  family.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that 
after  a  thorough  examination,  the  contents  of  the  trunk 
were  valued  at  no  less  sum  than  ten  thousand  dollars  — 
no  small  amount  for  a  poor  girl.  There  was  a  little 
note  at  the  bottom  which  read  as  follows :  — 

"  This  is  the  reward  of  modesty  and  virtue." 

If  we  had  the  power,  we  would  portray  the  feel 
ings  of  young  Derby  and  his  wife  on  hearing  of 
this  good  luck.  But  we  cannot.  The  girls  who  once 
turned  from  Mary  Johnson  with  contempt,  desired  to 
court  her  society ;  but  she  treated  them  kindly,  with 
out  referring  to  the  past,  or  desiring  such  acquaintances. 

Mary  is  as  modest  and  unassuming  as  ever,  and  uses 
her  wealth  to  promote  the  happiness  of  others.  There 
is  not  a  family  on  earth  where  more  real  comfort  is  en 
joyed  than  in  the  newly  shingled  and  white-painted  cot 
tage  of  the  Johnsons. 

"We  shouldn't  wonder  if  the  next  mails  bring  us  the 
news  of  the  marriage  of  Mary  Johnson  to  a  worthy 
and  industrious  mechanic,  who,  but  a  short  time  previ 
ous  to  her  good  fortune,  had  secured  her  affections  by 
his  rare  virtues  arid  accomplishments. 

Modesty  and  virtue  —  what  females  will  nbt  prefer 
them  to  riches,  fashion,  and  impudence  ? 
13* 


THE  REFORMATION. 


In  kindness  breathe  a  word ;  it  may 

Sink  deeply  in  the  breast 
Of  one  who  long  has  been  astray 

In  paths  of  vice  unblest. 
Drop  but  a  tear,  and  it'may  fall 

Upon  a  stony  heart, 
That  long  resisted  wisdom's  call, 

And  life  and  joy  impart. 

MARY  JOHNSON  was  the  pride  of  the  village.  Gay 
and  cheerful,  she  had  culled  the  flowers  of  eighteen 
summers,  without  scarcely  realizing  the  flight  of  time,' 
or  the  reality  of  existence.  Surrounded  by  kind 
friends,  and  blest  with  wealthy  parents,  she  was  con 
tented  and  happy.  Possessing  a  mild  disposition,  and 
being  courteous  in  her  deportment,  Mary  received  the 
praise,  and  won  the  affection  of  all  who  knew  her.  Be 
ing  an  only  child  she  was  the  idol  of  her"  parents,  who 
spared  no  pains  in  her  education. 

From  early  childhood,  Mary  had  been  intimate  in  the 
family  of  a  neighbor  by  the  name  of  Elson.  The  oldest 
son,  Henry,  had  been  her  companion  in  early  youth,  and 
they  had  grown  up  together,  with  scarcely  a  day  passing 
when  they  were  not  in  each  other's  company.  They  had 
now  pledged  their  love,  and  the  day  was  appointed  when 
they  should  become  man  and  wife.  The  parents  of 
each  were  well  pleased  with  the  union,  and  had  used 


THE  BEFORMATION.  151 

their  influence  to  bring  it  about.  The  marriage-day 
•was  one  of  interest  to  the  whole  village.  Everybody 
loved  and  respected  the  happy  couple.  They  had  grown 
up  in  their  midst,  and  not  a  word  had  ever  been  lisped 
to  their  discredit.  They  were  kind  and  obliging,  socia 
ble  and  pleasant,  and  possessed  that  disposition  which 
always  secures  the  esteem  of  others.  When  the  cere 
mony  was  over,  all  the  invited  guests  formed  a  proces 
sion  and  escorted  the  young  husband  and  his  wife  to 
their  future  abode.  Their  parents  had  erected  a  neat 
and  commodious  dwelling,  which  they  presented  to  the 
happy  couple.  It  was  neatly  furnished,  pleasantly  situ 
ated,  and  surrounded  by  beautiful  trees.  And  here 
Elson  and  his  wife  were  happy.  They  had  every  thing 
to  make  them  so.  In  the  morning,  Henry  would  go  to 
his  business,  while  Mary  found  pleasure  in  attending 
to  her  household  duties,  or  taking  care  of  the  various 
plants,  which  adorned  their  gardens. 

Thus  month  after  month  passed  away,  while  prosper 
ity  attended  their  steps  and  happiness  brightened  their 
glorious  sky.  Every  day  their  kind  neighbors  would 
call  to  see  them,  while  they  in  turn  visited  their  friends. 
From  so  auspicious  a  beginning,  one  would  predict  the 
lives  of  such  would  be  no  other  than  happy  —  that 
peace  and  contentment  would  continue  to  linger  around 
their  door.  It  was  thus  for  two  or  three  years.  As 
long  as  Henry  continued  in  humble  life,  felicity  dawned 
upon  them,  and  each  day  brought  new  pleasures  to 
their  delighted  dwelling.  But  Elson  had  become  popu 
lar  with  the  villagers ;  they  all  loved  him,  and  as  a 
mark  of  their  respect,  he  was  nominated  as  a  candidate 
to  fill  the  highest  office  in  town.  Without  the  least  op 
position  he  was  elected.  This  was  a  mark  of  honor 


152  THE  REFORMATION. 

wholly  unlocked  for,  and  it  elated  Henry  not  a  little 
He  had  never  moved  in  any  other  but  the  humble  walks' 
of  life ;  and  to  be  so  distinguished  —  to  be  looked  up  to 
by  the  whole  village,  made  him  feel  the  importance  of 
his  office,  as  it  naturally  would  one  who  had  been  un 
accustomed  to  receive  such  a  distinction,  and  more  es 
pecially  as  it  was  never  expected  and  had  never  been 
sought. 

At  this  period  it  was  customary  whenever  an  indi 
vidual  had  received  a  mark  of  honor  from  his  fellowr 
citizens,  to  manifest  it,  by  occasionally  inviting  those  in 
high  standing,  such  as  the  selectmen  of  the  town,  to 
his  house,  and  giving  them  a  treat.  Elson  commenced 
this  practice,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  partook 
of  the  social  glass.  As  his  associates  .increased,  his 
taste  for  spirits  began  to  strengthen,  till  a  little  every 
day  seemed  to  him  indispensable.  Mary  thought  her 
husband  was  less  attached  to  his  home  than  formerly, 
and  that  his  love  for  her  was  gradually  diminishing. 
The  reason  why  she  could  not  conjecture.  She  labored 
to  please  him,  and  did  all  in  her  power,  to  make  home 
happy  and  her  company  attractive.  One  night  she  was 
astonished  and  grieved  beyond  measure  to  discover  that 
.her  husband  was  a  little  intoxicated,  and  on  asking  him 
a  question,  she  received  an  angry  reply.  It  was  the 
first  time  that  a  cross  word  had  escaped  his  lips.  Mary 
burst  into  tears.  She  remembered  the  past ;  the  happy 
hours  and  pleasant  days  they  had  enjoyed.  Henry,  in 
stead  of  feeling  regret  for  the  misery  he  had  brought 
upon  his  wife,  spoke  unkindly  to  her,  which  only  in 
creased  her  sorrow,  and  brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes. 

"  0  Henry,  how  can  you  talk  so  ? "  said  she  ;  "  what 
have  I  done  to  merit  such  treatment  ?  You  know  my 


THE  REFORMATION.  153 

attachment  to  you,  and  yet  you  reproach  me.    I  try  to 
do  only  that  which  will  please  you." 

Her  husband  made  no  reply ;  and  on  the  next  day  he 
was  more  pleasant,  acknowledged  his  fault,  and  prom 
ised  to  drink  no  more.  But  he  had  now  acquired  a 
habit  which  it  was  no  easy  matter  to  conquer.  Henry 
determined  in  his  own  mind,  come  what  would,  to  resist 
the  temptation ;  but  it  was  too  powerful.  He  yielded, 
and  continued  to  use  a  little  every  day.  It  could  not 
but  be  noticed  by  his  devoted  wife,  who  entreated  and 
begged  of  him  to  resist  the  tempter,  and  forsake  the 
practice  which  was  growing  upon  him,  blasting  his 
prospects,  and  bringing  her  to  the  grave ;  but  she 
pleaded  in  vain.  The  people  lost  their  confidence  in 
Elson,  and  his  office  was  given  to  another.  He  now 
neglected  his  business,  associated  with  the  low  and 
spent  much  of  his  time  at  the  tavern.  As  is  the  case 
with  those  who  give  themselves  up  to  strong  drink,  El- 
son  became  unkind  and  abusive  to  his  family.  He 
found  fault  with  every  thing  done  for  his  comfort  by  his 
devoted  wife,  reproached  her  wrongfully,  and  from 
the  best  of  husbands,  became  one  of  the  most  abusive 
and  tyrannical  of  men,  especially  when  under  the  in 
fluence  of  spirit.  To  see  the  lovely  wife  was  enough  to 
make  the  heart  ache.  From  the  cheerful,  contented, 
and  perfectly  happy  woman,  she  was  almost  the  victim 
of  despair.  The  conduct  of  Elson  so  preyed  upon  her 
spirits,  that  the  flush  of  health  had  forsaken  her  cheek, 
she  grew  thin  and  cadaverous,  and  seemed  to  be  fast 
wasting  for  the  tomb.  Her  parents  endeavored  to  per 
suade  her  to  come  to  their  house,  and  leave  a  man  who 
conducted  so  basely.  But  to  them  she  would  not 
hearken.  She  loved  him  yet ;  she  clung  to  him  in  his 


154  THE  REFORMATION. 

degradation,  and  strove  with  all  her  strength  to  please 
him  and  make  him  happy. 

One  day  Mary  called  upon  the  keeper  -of  the  tavern, 
where  Elson  spent  his  money  and  watsed  his  time,  and 
requested  him  not  to  furnish  the  means  of  intoxica 
tion  to  her  husband. 

"  You  know,"  said  she  to  the  keeper,  "  that  it  is  in 
juring  his  health  and  destroying  my  happiness ;  as  'a 
great  favor,  then,  I  will  beg  of  you  not  furnish  him  with 
the  means  of  intoxication." 

"  It  wont  do  for  m'e,  situated  as  I  am,  to  refuse  li 
quor  to  any  gentleman  who  may  call.  I  don't  calculate 
to  sell  to  those  who  have  enough  already  —  but  I  can't 
refuse  gentlemen,  ma'am,  any  way." 

"  But  couldn't  you  persuade  my  husband  not  to  drink  ? 
Can't  you  tell  him  the  consequences  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  knows  the  consequences  better  than  I  can 
tell  him ;  it's  no  use  to  try  to  compel  men  not  to  drink 
when  they  will  have  spirit.  Why,  if  I  should  refuse  to 
sell  him,  he  would  go  somewhere  else,  you  may  depend 
upon  it.  He  may  as  well  obtain  it  here  as  in  any  other 
place." 

"  But  you  know  there  are  very  few  places  where  it 
could  be  obtained,  and  I  am  confident  if  you  refused  it 
to  him,  he  would  not  drink  one-half  as  much  as  he  does 
now.  0  sir,  if  you  knew  my  sufferings,  I  am  confident 
you  would  oblige  me  in  this  thing,  and  not  sell  any  more 
spirit  to  him." 

"  It  is  my  business  to  sell,  and  I  cannot  refuse  when 
a  gentleman  calls  for  a  glass  of  liquor.  You  had  better 
go  home,  and  not  try  to  prevent  what  you  cannot  help." 

"  Sir,  if  you  will  but  refuse  to  furnish  him  with  the 
means  of  intoxication,  I  will  assure  you  that  you  will 


THE  REFORMATION.  155 

not  be  the  loser  by  it.  I,  myself,  will  agree  to  pay  you 
double  what  you  would  make  by  selling  spirit  to  him." 

"  'Tis  no  use  talking,  I  shall  sell  it  when  purchas 
ers  are  gentlemen."  So  saying  he  left  the  room,  while 
the  good  wprnan  turned  her  steps  homeward.  Sorrow 
pressed  hard  upon  her,  and  the  tears  would  steal  down 
her  cheeks.  "  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  to  reclaim  him  ?  " 
was  her  constant  mental  inquiry. 

That  night  Elson  came  home  more  intoxicated,  and, 
consequently,  more  abusive  than  ever.  His  language 
was  coarse  and  profane  in  the  extreme.  He  even  threat 
ened  to  strike  the  wife  of  his  bosom. 

"  I  understand,"  said  he,  "  that  you  have  had  the  im 
pudence  to  call  at  Mason's  tavern,  and  try  to  persuade 
him  not  to  trade  with  me.  A  pretty  trick,  indeed,  for  a 
woman.  What  do  you  mean  by  such  conduct,  I  should 
like  to  know  ?-" 

"  You  are  aware,  Henry,  that  of  late  I  have  led  a  mis 
erable  life,  produced  by  the  course  you  have  pursued, 
in  partaking  too  freely  of  the  intoxicating  cup.  Once  I 
never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing." 

"  It  is  all  a  lie,  and  you  know  it,"  said  he,  hi  a  passion. 
But  Mary  said  no  more,  merely  asking  him  to  retire. 

It  is  useless  to  converse  with  a  drunken  man.  He 
has  no  reason ;  and  so  she  perceived,  and  concluded  to 
postpone  conversing  with  him.  Perhaps  on  the  mor 
row  she  would  have  an  opportunity.  That  night  was 
a  sad  one  to  Mrs.  Elson.  Sleep  refused  to  come  to  her 
swollen  eyelids,  and  tears  were  her  repast. 

The  mother  of  Mary  had  died  about  a  year  previous 
to  this  period,  and  her  father  was  so  much  displeased 
with  his  daughter  for  living  with  Elson,  while  he  contin 
ued  to  abuse  her,  that  he  declared  he  would  do  nothing 


156  THE  REFORMATION. 

towards  her  support,  even  if  she  should  come  to  want. 
The  parents  of  her  husband  had  become  reduced,  so 
that  they  by  prudence  only  were  enabled  to  live  from 
day  to  day.  It  was  the  love  that  Mary  bore  to  Henry, 
and  the  dark  prospect  that  was  before  them,  which 
pressed  so  heavily  upon  her  spirits  —  that  refused  to 
give  rest  to  her  limbs  or  slumber  to  her  eyes.  As  El- 
son  had  been  a  long  time  out  of  business  and  his  funds 
were  exhausted,  she  knew  not  what  would  be  the  result 
of  his  course.  The  thought,  however,  that  they  owned 
a  house,  from  which  none  could  expel  her,  was  some 
source  of  consolation,  and  she  resolved  never  to  forsake 
her  husband  as  long  as  she  lived,  and  she  could  obtain 
her  daily  bread.  Mary  had  moved  in  the  first  circles  of 
the  village ;  had  always  been  invited  to  the  parties  of 
her  friends,  and  was  received  with  pleasure.  Everybody 
loved  her  then  for  her  circumstances  were  good,  and  her 
husband  steady.  But  now  her  friends  seemed  to  forsake 
her ;  partly  because  she  would  not  listen  to  their  advice 
and  have  Elson  put  in  the  workhouse,  but  mostly  because 
she  was  the  wife  of  a  drunkard,  and,  consequently,  re 
duced  in  her  circumstances. 

The  next  day  Henry  came  home  as  much  intoxicated 
as  ever.  His  wife,  as  usual,  endeavored  to  persuade  him 
to  live  a  new  life,  and  give  up  his  present  evil  habits. 

"  I  will  do  every  thing  to  make  you  happy,  if  you 
will,"  said  she.  "  I  can  take  in  work,  if  it  be  necessary ; 
I  can  do  any  thing  to  support  us.  I  don't  care  how 
hard  I  work,  if  you  will  be  as  kind,  as  affectionate,  and 
as  cheerful  as  formerly.  I  am  certain,  if  you  continue 
to  drink,  we  both  shall  be  utterly  ruined.  Now,  my 
father  will  not  assist  us ;  our  friends  are  forsaking  us ; 
our  health  is  declining,  and  our  prospects  are  dark  and 
discouraging." 


THE  REFORMATION.  157 

"  'Tis  no  use  to  talk,  Mary.  What  did  you  do  yes 
terday,  but  call  on  Squire  Mason  ?  that  was  a  kind  act ; 
wasn't  it?  What  do  you  suppose  he  thinks  of  me? 
No,  never  will  I  reform,  so  long  as  you  act  so  much 
like  a  plaguy  fool.  What  if  I  do  drink  a  little,  there 
is  no  harm  in  it ;  we're  none  the  worse  off." 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  are.  We  are  very  poor  now,  when  we 
might  have  been  rich.  Look  at  my  dress  and  your 
clothes !  Do  they  not  bespeak  poverty  ?  Once  we  were 
as  decently  clad  as  any  of  our  neighbors ;  we  had  all 
we  could  desire,  and  prospered  abundantly.  But  since 
you  have  given  up  business,  and  taken  to  drink,  we  are 
miserably  poor." 

"  I  would  work  if  I  could  get  any  thing  to  do,  and 
you  know  it.  'Tisn't  my  fault  because  we  are  poor." 

"But  none  will  employ  an  intemperate  man.  'If 
you  will  leave  off  drinking,  I  will  insure  you  work,  and 
a  good  support.  Above  all,  we  shall  be  happy.  We 
shall  enjoy  ourselves  as  in  days  that  are  past." 

"  Well,  I  will  leave  off  drinking." 

"  But  you  have  said  the  same  a  great  many  tunes ; 
and  when  you  have  gone  into  bad  company,  and  visited 
Mason's  tavern,  you  have  broken  your  good  resolution 
and  drank  as  much  as  ever.  If  you  are  determined  not 
to  drink,  and  will  not  visit  such  places,  there  is  hope. 
Why  wont  you  keep  away  from  Mason's  ?  You  can  get 
all  we  want  elsewhere,  without  calling  upon  him." 

"  I  will  drink  no  more,  you  may  depend  upon  it." 

"  Then  we  shall  be  happy,  supremely  so ;  the  past  will 
only  be  remembered  with  joy  to  think  you  have  broken 
away  from  that  curse  which  has  well  nigh  ruined  us." 

"  I  will  keep  the  house  to-day,  and  shall  be  sure  not  to 
drink." 


158  THE  REFORMATION. 

"  Now,"  thought  Mary,  "  there  is  some  hope.  If  he 
remains  in  the  house,  it  will  speak  well  for  his  resolu 
tion." 

And  so  she  endeavored  to  interest  him  through  the 
day,  and  they  both  appeared  happier  than  they  had  for 
months  before. 

In  the  evening  Elson  remarked,  "  I  believe  I  shall 
take  a  little  walk.  I  know  you  think  I  shall  drink  — 
but  I  will  not  —  I  am  determined  to  leave  off." 

"  You  better  not  go,  I  think." 

"  I  shall  go  but  a  little  way  and  then  return." 

Mary  said  no  more';  but  the  moment  he  left  the  house, 
she  hurried  on  her  cloak  and  bonnet  with  the  intention 
of  following  him  unobserved.  She  hoped  he  would  not 
drink,  but  she  was  fearful  of  him.  She  thought  if  she 
could  prevent  it  now,  there  would  be  some  hope.  As 
she  followed  just  so  far  behind  her  husband  as  not  to  be 
observed  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  she  saw  him  pass 
the  tavern  of  Mason.  He  had  hardly  got  by,  before  he 
was  hailed.  Elson  stopped  and  conversed  for  some 
time,  and  at  last  she  saw  him  go  in.  The  poor  woman 
hurried  to  the  door,  and  on  looking  in,  beheld  a  group 
of  inebriates,  who  had  probably  come  to  spend  their 
hard-earned  money  for  that  which  would  prove  their 
greatest  curse.  She  observed  Mason  by  the  side  of  her 
husband,  patting  him  on  the  shoulder,  saying,  "  Don't 
mind  the  old  woman  —  don't  give  up  your  liberty  — 
come  take  a  glass  to  cheer  you,"  —  and  he  pulled  him 
along  towards  the  bar.  "  Here,  take  this,  'twill  warm 
you  and  do  you  good,"  handing  him  a  glass  of  spirit 
he  had  just  drawn. 

Elson  took  it  in  his  hand,  and  was  about  raising  it 
to  his  lips,  when  his  wife  sprang  in,  and  with  a  single 


THE  REFOBMATION.  159 

blow,  dashed  it  to  the  floor.  It  was  breathless  silence 
for  a  few  moments,  when  Mary,  giving  Mason  a  piercing 
look,  exclaimed  —  "Wretch  that  you  are,  thus  to  de 
stroy  my  peace,  and  ruin  my  husband !  If  the  curse  of 
Heaven  falls  upon  guilty  man,  surely,  such  a  wretch  as 
you  cannot  escape." 

Soon  as  she  thus  spoke,  Mrs.  Elson  and  her  husband 
departed,  leaving  the  rumseller  and  his  company,  who 
stood  like  so  many  marble  statues,  to  their  own  sober 
reflections. 

Neither  Elson  nor  his  wife  spoke  a  word  that  night. 
They  retired  early.  In  the  morning,  Elson  thus  ad 
dressed  his  wife  —  "You  have  saved  me,  Mary.  The 
temptation  last  night  was  too  strong  for  me  to  resist. 
I  shall  never  touch  the  glass  again.  And  never  will  I 
.pass  the  threshold  of  Mason's  door,  till  he  relinquishes 
the  sale  of  spirit.  He  has  almost  proved  my  ruin,"  and 
the  tears  were  in  his  eyes  as  he  spoke. 

The  intemperate  made  good  his  resolution.  From 
that  day,  he  became  a  sober  man  and  was  one  of  the 
most  active  agents  in  the  temperance  cause.  His  for 
mer  kindness  to  his  wife  returned,  and  nothing  did  he 
leave  undone^  that  could  in  any  possible  way  contribute 
to  her  welfare  or  happiness.  Mary  has  often  said  that 
she  was  more  than  repaid  by  his  kindness  for  all  she 
had  endured  during  the  years  in  which  her  husband 
partook  of  the  intoxicating  cup. 

Mr.  Johnson  was  so  well  pleased  with  the  reforma 
tion  of  his  son-in-law,  that  he  exerted  himself  in  his  be 
half,  and  obtained  for  him  a  situation  where  he  made  a 
comfortable  living.  From  the  day  that  Mary  dashed  the 
fatal  glass,  a  reformation  .commenced  in  the  village 
which  did  not  cease  until  nearly  every  man  who  had 


160  THE  REFORMATION. 

been  intemperate,  signed  the  pledge  and  became  sober 
and  industrious.  Even  old  Mason  himself  pulled  down 
his  bar,  declaring  that  he  would  no  longer  stand  out 
against  duty  and  reason,  and  was  as  zealous  in  promot 
ing  peace  and  happiness,  as  he  had  been  for  years  ac 
tive  in  destroying  the  health  and  reputation  of  the  vil- 


THE  PROMISE  FULFILLED. 


How  sweet  and  tender  are  the  words 
•  Which  flow  from  hearts  that  feel ! 

They  vibrate  on  the  tenderest  chords, 

And  only  bruise  to  heal. 
Bring  these,  and  like  rich  music's  swell 

Upon  a  placid  lake, 
They'll  sink  within  the  heart  and  dwell, 

And  grateful  thoughts  awake. 

CHAELES  EMERSON  was  the  son  of  a  mechanic.  When 
he  left  school,  he  entered  the  store  of  a  merchant  in 
Fore  Street,  as  his  clerk.  Bright,  active,  and  intelligent, 
he  secured  the  favor  of  his  master,  and  the  good-will 
of  those  who  traded  at  the  store.  For  six  or  seven 
years,  Charles  was  attentive  to  his  business,  and  exerted 
himself  for  his  employer.  When  he  arrived  at  one-and- 
twenty  years  of  age,  he  came  under  an  obligation  to 
remain  with  his  employer  another  twelvemonth  for  a 
specified  sum.  The  year  passed,  and  young  Emerson 
concluded  to  commence  business  in  his  own  name. 
The  merchant  did  not  wish  to  part  with  one  who  had 
been  so  faithful  to  him  for  a  series  of  years,  but  as  he 
thought  it  might  be "  advantageous  to  the  young  man, 
he  encouraged  him  to  go  into  business  for  himself. 

In  a  few  weeks,  Charles  was  in  his  own  store.  His 
goods  had  been  well  selected,  and  purchased  low.  By 
the  assistance  of  a  few  friends,  he  commenced  business 


162  THE  PEOMISE   FULFILLED. 

with  a  good  capital,  and  the  prospect  for  him  appeared 
to  be  excellent.  His  acquaintances  were  numerous, 
both  in  the  city  and  country.  His  noble  character  was 
appreciated  by  all  with  whom  he  had  dealings. 

A  few  years  passed  away,  during  which  time  the 
young  merchant  prospered  beyond  his  most  sanguine 
expectations.  His  business  had  increased  year  by  year, 
and  his  stock  was  as  large  as  any  merchant's  in  the  city. 
No  man's  credit  was  better  than  his.  Amid  his  pros 
perity,  however,  Charles  was  not  unmindful  of  oth 
ers.  He  was  always  ready  to  assist  honest  young  men 
who  were  striving  for  a  livelihood.  And  he  had  facili 
ties  for  being  useful  to  others.  Being  chosen  a  direc 
tor  in  one  of  our  banks,  he  was  extremely  careful  how 
he  refused  small  notes  from  young  men.  These  he 
preferred  to  discounting  paper  for  a  large  amount 
from  wealthy  capitalists.  One  day  something  like  half 
a  dozen  notes  were  presented  at  his  bank  for  discount. 
The  largest  note  was  for  four  or  five  thousand  dollars, 
drawn  by  a  very  wealthy  man,  and  the  remainder  were 
for  small  sums,  ranging  from  fifty  to  a  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  each.  The  directors,  with  the  exception  of 
Emprson,  were  in  favor  of  taking  the  large  notes  and 
refusing  the  small  ones. 

"  My  friends,"  said  he,  "  the  gentleman  who  wants 
the  large  amount  can  obtain  it  elsewhere,  if  we  do  not 
discount  his  note,  and,  of  course,  it  will  be  -but  little 
disappointment  to  him  —  whereas  these  young  men, 
all  of  whom  I  know  personally  or  by  reputation,  are  in 
need  of  this  money  to  carry  on  their  business.  They 
have  no  friends  to  call  upon  for  money,  and  if  we  re 
fuse  it  to  them,  it  may  be  of  serious  inconvenience.  I 


THE  PROMISE  FULFILLED.  163 

am  in  favor  of  refusing  the  former,  and  discounting  the 
latter  notes." 

"  You  know,  Mr.  Emerson,"  said  one  of  the  board, 
and  we  should  like  to  give  his  name,  but  it  will  not  be 

prudent,  "  that  Mr. is  a  wealthy  man,  and  it  will 

be  perfectly  safe  to  trust  him.  These  small  fry  are  not 
worth  looking  after.  It  is  just  as  much  trouble  to  look 
after  fifty  dollars  as  five  thousand." 

"  I  grant,  sir,  that  it  will  be  more  for  our  interest  to 
refuse  to  accommodate  poor  young  men,  and  loan  all 
our  capital  to  a  few  rich  men ;  but  I  am  in  favor  of 
accommodating  those  who  are  in  need  of  money,  and 
in  a  small  degree  help  them  to  acquire  property." 

The  directors  coincided  in  favor  of  Skinflint,  telling 
the  cashier  to  give  as  a  reason  why  the  small  notes  were 
not  discounted,  the  lack  of  money,  or  that  they  dis 
counted  but  little  on  that  day. 

Mr.  Emerson  made  no  further  remark,  but  in  a  short 
time,  whispered  in  the  ear  of  the  cashier  —  "  You  may 
draw  from  my  private  account  money  sufficient  to  ac 
commodate  all  these  young  men.  I  have  been  in  a  sit 
uation,  when  fifty  or  a  hundred  dollars  were  of  incalcu 
lable  service  to  me." 

The  cashier  did  as  he  was  directed  by  the  merchant, 
and  every  note  was  promptly  paid  when  due. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  Mr.  Emerson  did  a  large 
amount  of  good  without  having  it  known,  and  set  a 
most  admirable  example  to  others. 

The  merchant  had  been  in  business  something  like  a 
dozen  years,  and  was  supposed  to  be  worth  from  forty 
to  fifty  thousand  dollars.  He  gave  employment  to  a 
number  of  hands,  not  one  of  whom  who  did  not  speak 


164  THE  PROMISE  FULFILLED. 

of  him  in  the  best  of  terms.  But  in  the  midst  of  his 
prosperity,  the  land  fever  began  to  rage  in  Maine.  Ev 
erybody  was  buying  land,  and  making  thousands  of 
dollars  a  day.  Mr.  Emerson  stood  aloof  from  the  spec 
ulating  mania  for  a  long  time,  although  frequently  so 
licited  to  make  a  purchase.  But  at  last  he  yielded,  and 
bought  largely.  It  was  too  late.  The  fever  began  to 
subside,  and  he  was  left  with  large  tracts  of  land  on 
hand.  He  had  paid  out  many  thousand  dollars,  and 
given  his  notes  for  as  many  more.  •  The  money  he  de 
pended  upon  to  meet  his  demands,  could  not  be  col 
lected.  Others  had  suffered  and  were  not  able  to  pay 
their  just  debts.  What  could  be  done?  Must  the 
merchant  fail?  There  was  no  help  for  it;  he  made 
known  his  situation  to  those  he  owed;  made  a  plain 
statement  of  his  affairs,  said  he  was  willing  to  give  up 
all  his  property,  and  commence  business  again.  Would 
they  accept  his  proposal?  He  wrote  them  that  any 
thing -in  his  possession  would  be  theirs,  if  they  would 
relieve  him  from  his  liabilities,  and  give  him  a  chance  to 
continue  his  business,  assuring  them  that,  as  soon  as  he 
should  be  able,  he  would  fully  make  up  the  loss  with  in 
terest.  .  Those  who  had  long  traded  with  the  merchant 
knew  him  too  well  to  think  he  wished  to  deprive  them 
of  their  just  dues.  They  felt  for  his  peculiar  situation, 
and  came  forward  manfully,  with  but  a  single  excep 
tion,  and  released  him. 

But  one  exception,  we  said,  and  who  was  he  ?  The 
very  same  director  in  the  bank,  who  refused  to  loan 
money  in  small  amounts  to  young  men.  He  went  to 
Emerson  after  he  heard  of  his  misfortunes,  and  re 
quested  an  immediate  payment  of  what  was  due  him.  • 

"  I  cannot  pay  you  now,  Mr. "  said  Charles, 


THE  PROMISE  FULFILLED.  165 

"  but  as  soon  as  I  can  get  through  my  affairs,  and  see  a 
possible  way  to  move,  you  shall  be  paid  in  full  —  this 
you  may  rely  upon." 

"  But  you  can  pay  me  now." 

"  I  cannot,  sir.  It  would  afford  me  a  great  deal  of 
pleasure  to  do  it,  but  it  is  utterly  out  of  my  power, 
without  making  a  great  sacrifice  of  my  property." 

"  What  did  you  give  your  note  for,  if  you  did  not  ex 
pect  to  pay  it  ?  I  always  pay  my  notes." 

"  But  perhaps  you  never  met  with  any  losses.  Had 
my  note  been  presented  six  months  ago,  it  would  have 
been  paid  in  an  hour." 

"  I  shall  not  be  put  off.  If  you  do  not  settle  that 
note  by  to-morrow  night,  you  will  be  put  to  trouble.  I 
shall  not  be  treated  in  this  way." 

"  Sir,  I  cannot  pay  you  by  that  time,  whatever  course 
you  may  think  proper  to  take." 

"  The  world  is  full  of  scoundrels,"  said  the  fellow,  as 
he  went  from  the  shop,  "  but  I  will  see  what  effect  a 
writ  will  have  upon  him." 

Skinflint — there  is  no  more  appropriate  name  for 
flesh  and  bones  made  up  of  such  materials  —  Skinflint 
revolved  in  his  own  mind  who  would  be  the  best  law 
yer  to  undertake  his  business.  He  finally  hit  upon  a 
being,  who  had  no  more  mercy  or  kindness  than  him 
self-*- a  man  destitute  alike  of  principle  and  feeling — 
a  hard-hearted,  mean,  blustering  wretch,  who  had 
gained  admission  to  the  bar  by  his  brass,  impudence, 
and  interested  friends.  Such  was  the  being  who  had 
been  selected  to  torment  one  of  the  best  and  most  hon 
est  men  that  ever  lived. 

In  a  short  time,  Mr.  Emerson  was  waited  upon  by 
the  sheriff,  who  informed  him  that  his  instructions  were 


166  THE  PROMISE   FULFILLED. 

to  attach  whatever  property  he  could  find  in  his  posses 
sion.  As  the  merchant  had  concealed  nothing,  but  was 
on  the  point  of  compromising  with  his  creditors,  the  re 
sult  was  that  the  property  of  Mr.  Emerson  was  sacri 
ficed,  and  Mr.  Skinflint,  the  laweyr,  and  the  sheriff,  re 
ceived  their  pay  in  full',  while  the  honorable  creditors 
received  but  a  very  small  part  of  theirs.  It  was  ex 
ceedingly  trying  to  the  merchant  to  submit  to. the  pro 
ceedings,  but  he  bore  it  calmly,  looking  forward  to  the 
day  when  he  expected  to  regain  his  property,  pay  his 
debts,  and  be  in  comfortable  circumstances.  Mr.  Emer 
son  did  not  lack  courage  and  perseverance.  These  traits 
were  admirably  developed  in  his  character.  "When  he 
was  apparently  on  his  back,  and  all  was  dark  above 
him,  he  did  not  despair.  He  Iqoked  ahead,  and  put 
forth  exertions,  and  was  determined,  if  his  health 
should  be  continued,  to  rise  above  every  adverse  cir 
cumstance. 

We  should  have  mentioned  before,  that  although  the 
young  merchant  was  a  single  man,  he  had  contemplated 
entering  the  married  state  the  very  year  his  business  af 
fairs  assumed  their  dubious  character.  He  was  en 
gaged  to  Miss  Mary,  daughter  of  the  very  man  who  had 
instituted  legal  proceedings'  against  him.  The  day  that 
Skinflint  heard  of  the  failure  of  Charles,  he  took  his 
daughter  into  the  parlor,  and  there  made  her  promise 
to  discard  him.  Mary  was  unwilling  to  listen  to  her 
father's  proposal,  but  finally  gave  him  to  understand 
that  he  should  be  obeyed.  What  arguments  he  used 
to '  his  daughter,  we  never  knew.  Though  his  loss 
pained  him  sorely,  yet  it  was  nothing  to  Charles  in  com 
parison  with  the  coldness  of  one  he  had  tenderly  loved 
—  one  who  seemed  to  be  perfectly  amiable,  and  as  much 


THE  PBQMISE  FULFILLED.  167 

unlike  her  father  as  it  was  possible  for  one  to  be.  Mary 
was  an  only  child ;  her  mother  had  been  dead  several 
years,  and  on  the  death  of  her  father,  a  very  large  prop 
erty  would  fall  into  her  hands. 

When  Charles  found  that  both  Mary  and  her  father 
preferred  that  his  visits  should  be  discontinued,  he  was 
philosopher  enough  to  act  accordingly,  and  make  the 
best  of  it.  Attention  to  business  gradually  wore  away 
the  unpleasant  feelings  produced  by  the  treatment  of 
one  to  whom  he  had  been  ardently  attached,  and  Emer 
son  was  the  same  high-minded  and  respected  citizen. 
All  felt  for  his  circumstances,  and  not  a  few  exerted 
themselves  in  his  behalf.  His 'old  master  did  much  for 
him  by  loans  and  purchases,  and  his  credit  was  soon  es 
tablished.  He  was  prudent,  and  very  attentive  to  his 
business,  and  began  gradually  to  acquire  property.  In 
a  few  years  he  had  settled  off  with  his  old  creditors 
by  paying  them  the  full  amount  of  their  dues.  He  was 
enabled  to  do  this  sooner  than  he  anticipated,  from  the 
fact  that  many  against  whom  he  held  demands  proved 
to  be  honest  men,  and  were  able  to  pay  him.  Now  Em 
erson  seemed  to  prosper  more  than  ever  —  his  business 
greatly  increased,  and  the  amount  of  his  trade  brought 
in  large  profits. 

Mr.  Skinflint  —  would  that  we  dared  to  give  his  real 
name !  —  still  made  gold  his  god  and  continued  to  ac 
quire  property.  Oh,  the  mean  man !  He  is  before  us 
in  our  mind.  Day  by  day  he  might  be  seen  in  Fore, 
Exchange  and  Middle  Streets ;  and  his  very  looks  would 
betray  his  grovelling  mind.  His  daughter  was  married 
to  a  man  of  great  wealth,  so  it  was  said.  Mr.  Cooper 
had  in  some  way  or  another  wound  himself  round  the 
affections  of  the  old  gentleman,  who  looked  upon  his 


168  THE  PEOMISE  FULFILLED. 

future  son-in-law  as  the  paragon  of  perfection.  Yes, 
Mary  was  married  to  Mr.  Cooper,  and  the  wedding  was 
as  splendid  a  one  as  the  city  had  witnessed  for  many  a 
year. 

Bad  and  unfeeling  men  are  sometimes  punished  in 
this  life.  We  are  sure  Skinflint  was.  His  precious  son- 
in-law  proved  to  be  a  notorious  villain.  He  worked  his 
card  so  successfully,  that  the  old  gentleman's  property 
was  entirely  gone  before  he  had  any  idea  of  it,  and  he 
holden  for  some  thousands  that  he  could  not  pay. 

What  became  of  the  accomplished  Cooper,  no  one 
could  tell.  He  had  money,  and  a  heart  black  enough 
to  know  how  to  use  it  without  the  assistance  of  any 
body.  The  old  man  was  nearly  distracted  when  he  was 
made  'acquainted  with  the  course  and  conduct  of 
Cooper.  But  what  could  he  do  ?  He  trusted  him,  and 
had  no  one  to  blame  but  himself.  Now  his  money  was 
gone  —  his  all  —  and  his  pleasant  and  beautiful  house 
must  be  sold  to  pay  his  just  debts.  How  did  Skinflint 
feel  now  ?  Did  he  not  remember  his  treatment  to  the 
young  merchant,  who  failed  a  few  years  before,  and  a 
thousand  other  hard-hearted  acts  ?  We  know  he  did ; 
and  he  would  gladly  have  repented,  could  tears  and 
regrets  restore  to  him  his  lost  wealth. 

It  was  not  more  than  a  year  after  Skinflint  had  lost  his 
property  that  his  house  and  furniture  were  advertised 
for  sale.  His  situation  was  a  beautiful  one,  and  on 
that  account,  many  rich  men  were  anxious  to  pur 
chase  it. 

The  auctioneer  commenced  with  the  furniture  which 
took  the  whole  of  one  day  to  sell ;  after  which  he  gave 
notice  that  on  the  morrow  at  ten  o'clock,  the  house 
would  be  offered  for  sale. 


THE  PKOMISE  FULFILLED.  169 

The  next  day  arrived  —  a  crowd  was  assembled,  and 
the  house  was  put  up.  Three  thousand  dollars  —  four 
thousand  —  and  finally  five  thousand  three  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  were  offered,  and  the  house  knocked 
off. 

"  Who  is  the  bidder  ?  "  inquired  the  auctioneer. 

"  Emerson." 

"  Mr.  Charles  Emerson,"  said  three  or  four  voices,  to 
the  astonishment  of  not  a  few. 

When  the  house  was  sold,  to  the  first  man  who  en 
tered  the  room  where  Skinflint  and  his  daughter  were 
sitting,  the  old  gentleman  inquired  who  had  bought  the 
house,  and  when  fold,  he  turned  quite  pale,  but  uttered 
not  a  word. 

His  past  conduct  undoubtedly  rushed  to  his  mind, 
and  his  sensations  at  that  moment,  who  for  the  world 
would  have  felt  ? 

Mr.  Emerson  in  a  few  days  paid  for  the  house,  and 
took  the  deed  in  his  own  name.  Five  or  six  weeks 
elapsed,  when  one  day  as  he  was  passing  the  street, 
whom  should  he  meet  but  Mr.  Skinflint.  The  old  man 
stopped  and  said,  apparently  with  much  agitation, — • 

"  You  have  purchased  the  house  I  formerly  owned  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  have." 

"  When  shall  you  want  to  take  it  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  particular  about  it.  If  you  are  so  dis 
posed,  you  can  remain  there  for  the  present." 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  old  man,  and  it  was  evi 
dent  that  he  felt  the  kindness  he  received. 

In  a  day  or  two,  Charles  called  to  look  at  the  house. 
As  he  entered  the  door,  he  remembered  the  happy  sea 
sons  he  had  passed  there,  and  a  tear  came  to  his  eye. 
He  had  sat  with  the  old  gentleman  but  a  few  moments 
15 


170  THE  PROMISE  FULFILLED. 

when  Mary  came  into  the  room.  She  was  so  overcome 
she  could  hardly  speak.  They  had  not  met  before  for 
several  years.  The  bloom  was  still  on  the  cheek  of 
Mary,  but  the  impress  of  grief  was  on  her  brow. 

Charles  addressed  her  kindly,  and  she  instantly  burst 
into  tears,  and  the  old  man  mingled  his  tears  with  hers. 

"  Mr.  Emerson,"  said  he,  "  I  never  thought  I  should 
come  to  this." 

"  Never  mind,  sir ;  misfortune  is  the  lot  of  man. 
Sir,  I  have  been  unfortunate." 

"  It  grieves  me  when  I  reflect  on  my  treatment  to  you 
when  you  were  in  affliction  —  it  was  —  0  God!  for 
give  me  —  God  forgive  me"  —  and  the  tears  fell  fast 
from  the  eyes  of  the  old  man  — "  will  you  forgive  my 
unkindness  —  will  you  forgive  me  ? " 

"  0  sir,  trouble  not  yourself.  I  never  had  other  than 
feelings  of  forgiveness  towards  you." 

"  And  me,  too,"  said  Mary,  "  Charles,  will  you  forgive 
my  unkindness  ?  " 

"  With  all  my  heart." 

"  Ah,  Emerson,  the  girl  is  not  to  blame  for  the  course 
she  pursued.  I  alone  am  guilty  —  on  my  wretched 
head  is  all  the  blame.  I  have  been  a  wretch  indeed, 
and  now  I  am  punished  —  punished  as  I  deserve  —  oh, 
that  I  had  never  lived  to  see  this  day ! " 

"  Sir,  do  be  calm ;  you  are  not  so  wretched  as  you 
might  have  been.  This  house  I  have  bought,  and  you 
and  your  daughter  are  welcome  to  it  while  you  live ; 
and  most  of  the  furniture  I  also  bought,  and  it  shall 
not  be  removed." 

"You  astonish  me  beyond  measure.  What  means 
this  kindness  to  one  so  undeserving,  and  by  one  whom 


THE   PKOMISE   FULFILLED.  171 

I  have  wronged  —  shamefully  wronged  ?  "  and  the  old 
man  wept  like  a  child. 

"Mr.  Emerson,  how  can  you  be  so  kind,"  at  last 
said  Mary,  through  her  tears,  "  when  we  have  treated 
yqu  so  shamefully  ?  " 

"  Say  not  a  word.  You  are  not  to  blame ;'  you  shall 
never  suffer  while  I  live." 

"  I  cannot  speak.     I  feel  —  " 

"  Enough  has  been  said.  Be  calm  and  collected. 
Forget  the  past,  and  Heaven  grant  that  the  future  may 
be  bright  before  us." 

Charles  left  the  house,  assuring  Mary  and  her  father 
that  he  would  call  again  in  a  few  days.  As  he  passed 
to  his  store,  his  former  feelings  began  to  revive.  Mary 
appeared  the  lovely  and  affectionate  being  she  once  was, 
and  doubly  dear  since  he  heard  of  her  sufferings.  Her 
husband  had  deserted  her,  and  was  probably  dead,  as  a 
man  answering  his  description  had  been  killed  in  a 
street  fight  at  the  south  —  and  should  he  offer  to  marry 
her  now  ?  Did  she  love  him  ?  Could  he  doubt  it  ? 
Thus  reflecting  day  by  day,  he  made  up  his  mind  what 
to  do.  It  was  not  long  before  he  was  sitting  with  Mary 
in  the  house. 

"  I  have  come,  Mary,  to  ask  if  you  will  fulfil  your 
promise  ?  " 

"  And  what,  pray  ?  " 

"  That  you  would  be  my  wife." 

"You  astonish  me." 

"  Will  you  make  good  your  promise  ?  " 

"  0  Charles,  would  you  now  accept  me  —  as  un 
grateful  as  I  have  proved  ?  If  you  were  serious,  my 
happiness  would  be  complete." 


172  THE  PROMISE  FULFILLED. 

"I  mean  what  I  say;  Mary,  will  you  fulfil  your 
promise  ?  " 

"  Dear  Charles,  Heaven  knows  I  will,  most  sincerely," 
and  she  fell  in  his  arms,  while  the  old  gentleman  ex 
claimed,  — 

"  God  be  praised  —  it  is  the  happiest  moment  I  ever 
knew." 

A  few  months  passed  away,  and  Charles  was  united 
to  Mary.  They  live  in  the  old  house,  and  two  more 
congenial  souls  it  would  be  difficult  to  find. 

Mr.  Emerson  is  now  one  of  our  rich  merchants,  and 
one  of  the  best-hearted  men  in  the  city.  To  young  men 
of  enterprise  and  correct  habits,  he  is  extremely  partial. 
He  often  assists  them  in  their  business,  and  encourages 
them  to  persevere  and  surmount  the  obstacles  that  occa 
sionally  rise  in  their  path.  Everybody  respects  and  loves 
him.  You  never  hear  his  name  mentioned  except  in 
connection  with  a  good  deed,  or  to  lavish  praise  upon 
his  benevolent  heart.  Would  that  our  city  possessed 
more  characters  like  this.  Then  prosperity  would  be 
seen  in  our  streets  —  pleasure  and  sunshine  mantle  the 
brow  —  and  hundreds  would  be  in  the  path  to  compe 
tence,  who  now  labor  under  a  load  which  it  is  next  to 
impossible  to  remove. 


THE  GOLD  RING. 


CHAPTER    I. 

How  greatly  wise,  who  never  move 

When  stern  misfortune  lowers ; 
Who  see  the  same  kind  hand  of  love 

In  sunshine  and  in  showers. 
When  shadows  veil  the  burning  sky, 

Behind  the  clouds  they  know 
Bright  fields  of  golden  grandeur  lie, 

And  seas  of  splendor  flow. 
They  only  bend,  but  never  break, 

When  angry  storms  arise  — 
Prepared  the  hand  of  grief  to  take, 

And  wait  for  brighter  skies. 

EMILY  ACTON  was  an  excellent  young  lady  of  some 
eighteen  years  of  age.  Her  parents,  though  in, humble 
circumstances,  were  industrious,  and  the  daughter  was 
early  taught  to  employ  herself  about  that  which  was  use 
ful.  She  took  pride  in  rising  early,  and  getting  break 
fast  ready  by  the  time  her  mother  arose ;  after  which  she 
would  employ  herself  in  the  kitchen,  or  sew,  or  knit. 
Unlike  a  great  many  of  her  sex,  she  was  seldom  seen  at 
the  window,  to  watch  the  young  men  who  passed,  dressed 
in  the  height  of  fashion.  It  was  not  because  Emily 
was  poor,  but  she  had  a  different  taste,  and  thought 
more  of  her  character  and  the  assistance  she  might 
render  to  her  mother.  Her  dress  was  always  neat,  but 
never  gaudy ;  and  it  did  not  trouble  her  if  she  could 
15* 


174  THE  GOLD  RING. 

not  follow  the  'foolish  fashions  of  the  day.  Emily  was 
also  interesting  in  her  conversation.  You  would  not 
hear  her  talk  about  the  fashions  and  the  beaux  from  one 
month  to  another ;  nor  remark  what  this  person  and 
that  wore  at  church.  She  attended  meeting  to  hear, 
and  not  to  see  and  be  seen ;  and  what  she  heard  was 
treasured  in  her  mind.  Miss  Acton  was  called  a 
little  odd  by  some  of  her  flirty  young  friends,  who 
were  all  for  fashion  and  show ;  but  they  loved  her,  nev 
ertheless.  Emily  had  an  excellent  disposition  ;  she  was 
kind  and  accommodating,  and  never  indulged  in  angry 
words  or  manifested  unpleasant  feelings. 

Mr.  Acton  was  a  worthy  shoemaker,  but  as  his  busi 
ness  was  not  very  good,  and  he  not  an  expert  workman, 
it  was  with  difficulty  that  he  paid  his  debts  and  lived 
comfortably.  To  purchase  the  necessaries  of  life  re 
quires  no  little  sum,  especially  when  rents  are  high  and 
wood  and  flour  are  dear.  To  help  him  in  the  family, 
Emily  was  in  the  habit  of  taking  in  work,  and  often 
earned  from  twelve  to  fifteen  shillings  a  week.  This 
she  gave  to  her  mother  to  spend  in  any  way  she  might 
think  proper. 

One  morning  as  Emily  was  returning  some  work  that 
she  had  done,  she  picked  up  a  small  gold  ring.  On 
examining  it,  as  she  returned  home,  she  discovered  the 
initials  "  J.  S."  engraved  on  the  inside.  "  Mother,"  said 
she,  "  this  may  belong  to  some  one  who  prizes  it  highly ; 
otherwise,  I  think,  the  owner  would  not  have  had  his 
initials  engraved  upon  it." 

"  If  so  you  may  find  the  owner,  for  it  will  certainly 
be  advertised." 

"  Do  you  think  one  would  go  to  that  expense  for  so 
trifling  a  thing  ?  " 


THE  GOLD  EING.  175 

"  Not  unless  it  is  valued  more  as  a  gift  than  for  the 
gold  it  contains." 

Emily  carefully  put  away  the  ring  in  her  box  and 
thought  but  little  of  it  for  a  few  days.  On  Tuesday 
morning  when  the  Gazette  came,  —  for  Mr.  Acton  was  a 
subscriber  to  this  paper,  —  on  looking  in  the  advertising 
columns,  Emily  exclaimed  — 

"  Why,  mother,  the  ring  I  found  last  week  is  really 
advertised." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  it  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  it  describes  the  ring  perfectly." 

"Run  and  get  it,  and  then  read  me  the  advertise 
ment." 

Emily  brought  the  ring  and  handed  it  to  her  mother, 
and  read  as  follows :  — 

"  LOST.  —  A  small  gold  ring  with  the  initials  '  J.  S.' 
upon  it.  The  ring  is  prized  as  the  gift  of  a  friend,  and 
whoever  has  found  the  same  shall  be  liberally  rewarded 
by  leaving  it  at  the  store  of  Mr. ,  in  Middle  Street." 

"  It  must  be  the  same,  Emily,  and  you  had  better 
carry  the  ring  to  the  store  this  morning." 

"  I  will,  mother ;  but  I  shall  charge  nothing  for  find 
ing  it." 

Putting  on  her  things,  Emily  started  for  the  shop  in 
Middle  Street.  On  entering,  she  made  known  her  er 
rand,  and  the  storekeeper  remarked  that  the  gentle 
man  who  lost  the  ring  had  left  two  dotfars  for  him  to 
pay,  should  any  one  present  it.  But  Emily  refused  to 
take  the  money,  and  left  the  ring.  The  shopkeeper 
insisted  on  her  taking  the  two  dollars.  "  The  gentle 
man  is  rich  and  able  to  pay  it,"  he  said. 

Finding  that  she  refused  and  was  leaving  the  shop, 
he  called  her  back  and  requested  her  name  and  resi- 


176  THE  GOLD  RING. 

t 

dence,  which  she  did  not  hesitate  to  give,  and  then  left 
the  shop  and  returned  to  her  home. 

The  following  Monday,  when  Emily  and  her  mother 
were  at  their  washtubs,  some  one  knocked  at  the  door. 
The  old  lady  went  to  see  who  was  there  and  presently 
returned,  telling  her  daughter  a  young  gentleman  was 
in  the  front  room,  who  wished  to  see  her.  Wiping  her 
face  and  hands  on  her  apron,  she  hastened  into  the 
room,  without  unrolling  her  sleeves  or  unpinning  her 
gown.  Yet  she  did  not  apologize  for  her  appearance, 
taking  it  for  granted,  that  if  a  real  gentleman  wished 
to  see  her,  he  would  know  that  to  work  was  no  disgrace 
and  that  on  Monday  morning  she  must  of  course  be 
found  at  the  washtub. 

As  she  entered  the  room  the  gentleman  remarked  — 
"If  I  mistake  not,  you  are  the  young  lady  who  re 
cently  found  a  gold  ring  and  left  it  at  the  store  of  Mr. 
_____  » 

«  Yes,  sir." 

"  But  as  you  refused  to  take  the  two  dollars  I  left, 
I  didn't  know  but  you  might  think  it  too  small  a  sum, 
and  I  have  called  to  present  you  with  five  dollars." 

"•0  sir,  I  did  not  think  I  ought  to  be  paid  for  do 
ing  my  duty,  and  therefore  I  refused  to  take  it ;  and  I 
shall  now  certainly  refuse  your  liberal  offer." 

"  But  I  insist  upon  you  taking  it.  Here,  accept  this 
bill." 

"  I  cannot  consent  to  take  it.  It  wouldn't  be  right 
for  me  to  be  paid  for  discharging  my  duty;  do  you 
think  it  would,  sir  ?  " 

"  The  ring  I  value  at  ten  times  that  sum.  It  is  a 
ring  worn  by  a  very  dear  friend  who  died  about  two 
years  since,  and  on  that  account  I  prize  it.  But  I 


THE  GOLD  KING.  177 

merely  ask  you  to  take  this  bill  as  a  present,  not  as  pay 
received  for  a  very  honest  act  —  and  take  it  you  must." 

"  Do  not  urge  me  to  take  it,  sir." 

"  Take  it  —  take  it  —  and  say  not  another  word." 

Eeluctantly  Emily  held  out  her  hand  and  took  the 
five  dollars,  remarking  that  she  would  endeavor  to 
make  good  use  of  it. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  that,"  said  the  stranger,  seem 
ing  but  little  inclined  to  leave ;  "  you  Ijave  probably 
learned  how  to  make  good  use  of  money." 

"  Yes,  sir,  as  my  parents  are  poor,  I  am  obliged  to 
earn  my  own  living  by  sewing  and  knitting,  and  I  ex 
pend  but  very  little  for  what  I  think  is  not  really  use 
ful." 

"  You  take  in  work,  then." 

"  Yes,  sir,  all  I  can  get  to  do." 

"  I  have  some  shirting  I  should  like  to  have  made  up. 
Can  I  get  you  to  do  it  ?" 

"  I  should  be  happy  to  do  it  for  you." 

Bidding  Emily  good-morning,  the  stranger  left,  and 
the  industrious  girl  returned  to  her  washtub. 

"Mother,"  said  she,  "who  do  you  suppose  this 
stranger  is  ?  He  appears  to  be  an  excellent  man,  and 
insisted  upon  my  taking  five  dollars  for  finding  the 
ring." 

"  I  cannot  tell ;  he  must  be  some  rich  man's  son,  or 
he  could  not  afford  to  give  you  so  much." 

"Besides,  mother,  he  says  he  will  give  me  some 
work." 

"  If  he  should,  and  you  do  it  well,  it  may  open  the 
way  for  more  employment.  I  should  as  lief  you  would 
work  for  gentlemen  as  take  it  from  slop  shops." 

Cheerful  and  happy,  Emily  continued  at  her  work 


178  THE  GOLD  RING. 

day  by  day.  She  never  had  a  moment  to  spend  to  walk 
the  streets  or  gossip  from  house  to  house.  Her  thoughts 
were  how  she  could  make  herself  more  useful,  and 
better  promote  the  welfare  and  happiness  of  her  worthy 
parents. 


CHAPTER    II. 

I  seek  a  female  in  whose  heart 
Domestic  virtues  share  a  part ; 
.Not  fond  of  gaudy  dress  or  show, 
To  please  some  foppish,  senseless  beau ; 
Who  rather  at  her  work  be  seen, 
Than  pace  the  town  with  haughty  mien, 
Addressing  every  male  she  meets, 
In  bustling  mart,  or  crowded  streets. 

CHARLES  SIMONTON  was  the  son  of  a  rich  man ;  but 
unlike  the  children  of  many  wealthy  parents,  from  his 
earliest  years,  he  was  obliged  to  work.  His  judicious 
father  had  been  brought  up  at  a  mechanical  trade,  and 
had  made  his  fortune  by  diligence  and  industry,  and  he 
was  determined  his  son  should  not  be  ruined  by  idle 
ness  and  improper  associates.  When  he  was  old  enough 
to  learn  a  trade,  he  put  Charles  to  Messrs.  Gould  &  "Web 
ster  to  learn  the  mysteries  of  making  hats.  With  these 
gentlemen  he  worked  hard,  but  at  this  he  did  not  mur 
mur.  Sometimes  his  fellow-associates  would  joke  him 
on  account  of  his  steady  habits,  and  even  laugh  at  him 
for  not  touching  the  ardent  spirits  which  they  daily 
used.  But  he  had  seen  the  evil  of  intemperance,  and 
warned  them  to  beware.  They  heeded  him  not. 


THE  GOLD  EING.  «  179 

One  day  two  of  the  apprentices,  young  Woodman 
and  Hanes,  determined  they  would  make  Charles  take 
a  glass  of  bitters  with  them,  but  he  stoutly  refused. 
They  held  him  and  endeavored  to  pour  the  poison  down 
his  throat,  but  could  not  succeed. 

"  You  will  be  sorry  for  this,"  said  Charles,  "  for  I  am 
certain  unless  you  forsake  your  practice,  you  will  be 
come  intemperate  and  die  drunkards." 

"We'll  risk  that,  young  Morality,"  they  replied. 
"  Who  wont  enjoy  themselves  when  they  can,  must  be 
fools." 

Charles  made  the  best  of  the  treatment  he  received, 
and  was  so  kind-hearted,  it  was  seldom  that  he  was 
treated  roughly.  His  most  excellent  mother  had  taught 
him  lessons  of  wisdom  which  he  could  not  forget.  When 
tempted  to  stray  from  duty,  her  image  and  her  coun 
sels  were  before  him,  and  he  turned  from  the  wrong 
path  and  pursued  a  virtuous  course. 

When  Charles  had  finished  his  trade,  his  masters  of 
fered  to  give  him  employment,  but  his  father  had  busi 
ness  for  him,  which  he  thought  would  be  more  conge 
nial  to  his  feelings ;  he  took  him  into  partnership  with 
himself.  Their  business  was  good,  and  prosperity 
crowned  their  efforts.  About  this  time,  Charles  met 
with  a  severe  loss  in  the  death  of  his  mother.  She  had 
been  sick  for  some  months,  and  her  death  had  been 
daily  expected.  She  gave  her  son  some  excellent  ad 
vice,  and  begged  him  never  to  deviate  from  a  virtuous 
course. 

"  My  son,  I  am  dying,"  said  she,  "  and  when  I  am 
gone,  remember  my  words  to  you,  and  always  prac 
tise  according  to  the  dictates  of  wisdom.  Follow  the 
Bible  and  treasure  in  your  heart  its  holy  truths,  which 


180  THE  GOLD  RING. 

if  obeyed  will  make  you  happy  in  life,  cheerful  in  death, 
and  blessed  forever.  Here,  Charles  I  give  you  a  ring 
I  have  worn ;  keep  it  to  remember  my  precepts." 

Charles  loved  his  mother  affectionately.  She  had 
been  a  devoted  parent  to  him,  and  when  she  was  dead, 
his  grief  was  poignant.  He  placed  her  gift  upon  his 
finger,  resolving  to  part  with  it  only  in  death. 

Mrs.  Simonton  had  slept  beneath  the  clods  of  the 
valley  for  nearly  two  years,  and  Charles  had  safely  kept 
this  relic  of  his  mother ;  but  one  day  on  going  to  his 
supper,  he  discovered  that  he  had  lost  his  ring.  He 
looked  for  it  in  vain.  Charles  went  directly  to  Isaac 
Adams,  proprietor  of  the  Portland  Gazette,  and  paid 
him  for  an  advertisement  stating  his  loss,  requesting  the 
finder  to  leave  it  at  a  shop  in  Middle  Street. 

In  a  few  days,  Charles  called  at  the  store,  and  ascer 
tained  that  his  ring  had  been  found.  "  But,"  said  the 
shopkeeper,  "the  young  woman  who  found  it  would 
not  take  the  two  dollars  reward  you  ordered  me  to 
pay  her." 

"  Wouldn't  take  it  ?  —  and  why  not  ?  " 

"It  is  more  than  I  can  tell.  She  seemed  to  think  it 
was  not  one's  duty  to  receive  pay  for  what  was  found. 
And,  faith,  Charles,  she  was  a  very  pretty  girl." 

"  But  she  shall  be  paid.  Just  inform  me  where  she 
lives,  and  I  will  see  she  is  rewarded  for  her  honesty." 

The  shopkeeper  informed  Charles  of  her  residence, 
and  on  Monday  he  called  at  her  house.  The  result  of 
that  visit  the  reader  learned  in  our  first  chapter. 

When  young  Simonton  left  the  house  of  Mr.  Acton, 
he  resolved  on  one  thing  —  to  marry  the  interesting  and 
domestic  daughter,  as  he  found  her  to  be,  providing  he 
could  obtain  her  consent.  Her  beauty  and  her  mod- 


THE  GOLD  EING.  181 

-jsty,  her  industry  and  her  humility,  struck  him  at 
once,  and  he  could  not  forget  her.  At  night  he  thought 
of  the  beautiful  girl,  and  in  the  daytime  she  was  be 
fore  him.  "  She  is  just  such  a  woman  as  I  need,"  said 
he  to  himself,  "  and  she  suits  me  better  than  any  of  the 
dozens  I  am  acquainted  with,  who  fill  the  circle  of  pride 
and  fashion." 

In  a  short  time  Charles  called  at  Mr.  Acton's  with 
the  shirting  he  wished  to  have  made  up.  It  was  in 
the  evening.  He  was  politely  invited  -in,  and  gladly 
embraced  the  opportunity.  While  sitting  with  the 
good  lady,  Emily  busied  herself  with  ironing  the 
clothes,  now  and  then  stopping  to  converse  with 
Charles.  Every  thing  was  neat  about  the  house,  and 
spoke  of  industry  and  not  of  poverty.  In  taking  leave 
he  was  invited  to  call  again  by  Emily  and  her  mother, 
the  former  stating  that  his  work  would  be  finished  in 
the  course  of  a  week. 

"What  a  fine  young  gentleman  Mr.  Simonton  is," 
said  Mr.  Acton,  after  Charles  had  gone ;  for  on  that 
evening  for  the  first  time,  they  had  learned  his  name. 

"  He  is  very  pleasant  and  very  kind,"  remarked  Em 
ily.  "  How  different  he  is  from  many  of  our  rich  men. 
I  really  begin  to  like  that  young  man." 

"I  certainly  do,"  said  the  mother.  "You  seldom 
see  a  man  of  his  wealth  so  pleasant  and  agreeable  to 
poor  folks." 

"  If  ever  I  should  be  so  lucky  as  to  get  a  husband, 
mother,  I  know  of  no  one  who  comes  up  t.o  my  ideas 
of  what  a  husband  ought  to  be  as  this  Mr.  Simon- 
ton." 

"  I  fear,  my  child,  you  will  not  get  such  a  gentleman 
as  he." 

16 


182  THE  GOLD  KING. 

"I  do  not  expect  it.  I  never  dreamed  of  such  a 
thing.  It  was  only  some  of  my  foolish  .talk." 

One  week  passed  away,  and  Mr.  Simonton  called  for 
his  work*.  It  was  done  and  well  done ;  for  which  he 
paid  Emily  liberally  — :  she,  however,  refusing  to  take 
more  than  it  was  worth,  until  being  over  persuaded. 

When  Charles  took  his  leave  that  night,  he  remarked 
to  Emily,  "  On  Sunday  evening  next,  Dr.  Deane  deliv 
ers  a  lecture  before  the  Benevolent  Society.  I  should 
be  happy  to  have  your  company  there." 

"  I  should  be  pleased  to  go,"  said  Emily,  and  they 
bade  each  other  good-night. 

Charles  and  Emily  went  to  the  lecture.  A  door  was 
now  opened  for  his  frequent  visits  at  Mr.  Acton's,  and 
every  week  he  spent  two  or  three  evenings  there. 

A  year  passed  away — just  one  year  from  the  day 
that  Emily  picked  up  the  gold  ring  in  the  street.  There 
was  a  wedding  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Acton,  and  Emily 
was  the  happy  bride.  She  never  looked  handsomer 
and  Simonton's  joy  was  complete.  Mr.  Kellogg  united 
the  happy  pair,  and  then  invoked  the  blessing  of  the 
Almighty  upon  them. 

As  Mr.  Simonton  was  a  wealthy  man,  he  purchased  a 
fine  house  in  Back  Street ;  thither  he  took  his  excellent 
companion,  where  they  lived  in  peace,  prosperity,  and 
happiness  for  more  than  half  a  century.  It  was  but  a 
few  years  since  that  they  were  deposited  in  the  narrow 
tomb,  followed  by  numerous  friends  and  relations. 
They  died  in  Christian  faith,  the  precepts  of  the  Bible 
cheering  them  in  their  sickness,  and  giving  them  an 
antepast  of  those  joys  which  are  in  reservation  for  the 
righteous. 


THE  HUMPBACK. 


What  are  another's  faults  to  me  ? 

I've  not  a  vulture's  bill, 
To  pick  at  every  flaw  I  see, 

And  make  it  wider  still : 
It  is  enough  for  me  to  know, 

I've  follies  of  my  own  — 
And  on  my  heart  the  care  bestow, 

And  let  my  friends  alone. 

<  » 

SAEAH  EDGAB  was  a  young  girl  very  much  deformed 
in  her  person.  When  quite  a  child,  she  had  a  fall 
which  nearly  cost  her  her  life,  and  from  that  time 
she  became  humpbacked,  and  grew  but  very  little  in 
height.  Sarah  possessed  a  kind  disposition,  and  was  so 
much  beloved  by  her  young  associates  that  they  never 
thought  of  the  defect  in  her  body.  She  was  active  and 
cheerful,  and  appeared  as  happy  as  if  she  were  as  per 
fect  in  her  form  as  her  companions.  But  as  Sarah  grew 
older,  she  felt  her  situation  more  sensibly,  as  many  of 
her  early  friends  who  seemed  to  be  the  most  partial  to 
her,  gradually  forsook  her  society.  There  was  one  girl 
whose  name  was  Jane  Coburn,  with  whom  Sarah  had 
been  intimate  from  early  childhood,  who,  since  she  had 
grown  up,  seemed  more  than  all  her  other  acquaint 
ances  to  avoid  her  company.  The  poor  girl  was  at  a 
loss  to  conjecture  the  reason ;  for  she  was  sure  she  had 
neither  said  nor  done  any  thing  to  make  her  act  so 


184  THE  HUMPBACK. 

strangely .  When  they  met,  a  few  words  would  pass  .be 
tween  them,  but  Jane  never  seemed  disposed  to  pro 
long  the  conversation.  To  be  sure,  Sarah  was  deformed 
and  poor,  and  lived  in  a  small  house,  while  Jane's  par 
ents  were  reputed  to  be  wealthy,  and  owned  the  large 
dwelling  they  occupied ;  but  this  should  have  been  no 
reason  why  Sarah  was  treated  so  coldly. 

The  mother  of  Jane  was  very  partial  to  the  hump 
backed  girl ;  she  could  appreciate  her  virtues,  and  pity 
her  misfortunes.  Many  a  time  did  she  present  her 
with  a  new  gown  or  a  new  bonnet,  and  no  person  was 
ever  more  grateful  for  a  present.  One  afternoon,  Sarah 
called  on  Mrs.  Coburn ;  but  she  had  hardly  seated  her 
self  before  Jane  remarked  in  the  •  presence  of  her 
mother,  — 

"  I  wish  folks  knew  when  they  were  wanted,  and 
would  stay  until  they  are  sent  for." 

"Why,  Jane, -what  do  you  mean?"  inquired  her 
mother. 

"  Nothing  particular ;  but  I  hate  intruders." 

Mrs.  Coburn  immediately  remarked  —  "Jane  ex 
pects  some  company  to-day,  and  every  thing  has  gone 
wrong  with  her,  and  she  hardly  knows  what  she  says. 
I  am  determined  that  this  shall  be  the  last  time  I  con 
sent  to  have  her  receive  her  friends  unless  she  can  show 
a  better  feeling." 

"  If  I  do  expect  company,  I  don't  want  any  to  come 
but  those  I  invite.  Who  wants  everybody  and  every 
thing  ?  I  don't,  I'm  sure." 

Jane's  mother  thought  it  was  not  necessary  to  reply 
to  her  daughter,  and  continued  to  converse  with  Sarah 
who,  although  she  understood  Jane's  remark,  was  as  so 
ciable  and  as  pleasant  as  ever. 


THE  HUMPBACK.  185 

Although  Sarah  was  urged  to  remain  with  her  dur 
ing  the  afternoon  by  Mrs.  Coburn^  she  would  not  con 
sent,  knowing  that  it  would  be  disagreeable  to  her 
daughter. 

As  Sarah's  constitution  was  feeble,  she  was  over  per 
suaded  by  her  friends  not  to  learn  a  trade,  as  she  con 
templated,  but  to  do  something  else  to  support  her 
self;  but  what  business  to  engage  in  she  did  not  know. 
Plain  sewing  she  could  do,  but  while  so  many  were  de 
pending  upon  their  needles,  it  was  but  poor  encourage 
ment  to  her.  But  a  trifle  only  did  she  earn  in  this 
way. 

One  day  a  thought  struck  her  as  she  was  passing  one 
of  the  principal  streets  in  her  town  ;  it  was  this :  per 
haps  she  could  make  a  living  by  keeping  a  small  fruit 
and  candy  store,  at  the  corner  of  some  street.  The 
more  she  though^  of  the  subject,  the  more  favorable  it 
appeared  to  her.  Her  mother  thought  it  was  a  good 
idea,  and  encouraged  her  to  undertake  it.  Sarah  was 
not  long  in  finding  a  suitable  place  ;  but  all  the  money 
she  could  raise  to  commence  business  with  was  sev 
enty-five  cents.  With  this  sum,  she  purchased  a  few 
apples,  and  some  other  fruit,  and  also  some  candies,  and 
commenced  trading.  „  The  first  day  she  sold  nearly  all 
her  articles,  and  made  twenty-five  cents.  Day  after  day 
her  business  increased,  so  that  she  was  enabled  to  keep 
on  hand  a  larger  assortment  and  a  greater  quantity. 
Every  summer  day,  Sarah  Edgar  might  be  seen  trudg 
ing  to  her  little  stand,  where  she  would  remain  all  day, 
selling  to  the  passers-by.  In  winter  she  was  permitted 
to  occupy  a  corner  of  a  gentleman's  shop,  who,  out  of 
kindness,  charged  her  no  rent.  Now  Sarah  had  but 
little  time  to  see  her  friends,  excepting  in  the  evening ; 
16* 


186  THE  HUMPBACK. 

and  when  she  called  upon  Mrs.  Coburn,  she  was  pleas 
antly  received  by  the  good  lady,  who  still  felt  a  deep  in 
terest  in  the  unfortunate  girl. 

But  Jane  had  grown  more  and  more  haughty.  One 
evening  she  asked  her  in  the  way  of  ridicule  — 

"  How  many  sugar-plums  have  you  sold  during  the 
day?" 

"  About  a  dozen  cents'  worth,"  said  Sarah. 

"  It  must  be  pleasant  business  for  a  lady  to  follow." 

"It  is  not  so  disagreeable  as  to  be  idle ;  but  while  I 
make  my  own  living,  and  assist  my  mother,  I  feel  quite 
happy." 

"  You  will  make  your  fortune,  yet,  by  retailing  pep 
permints  and  candy,  no  doubt." 

"  Perhaps  I  shall." 

"If  I  were  you,  Sarah,  I  would  be  looking  out  a 
house  to  buy,  you  are  making  money  so  fast.  Perhaps 
father  would  sell  you  this,"  and  then  a  scornful  smile 
played  upon  her  face. 

"  I  do  not  wish  for  a  house  at  present,  and  you  know, 
Jane,  I  may  never  earn  a  hundred  dollars  in  my  life." 

"  Great  profit  is  made  on  sugar-plums,  you  know.  It 
is  a  very  fine  business." 

"  If  I  were  not  deformed,  I  assure  you,  I  should  do 
something  else  for  a  living.  I  could  learn  a  trade,  or 
work  in  a  factory." 

"  You  wouldn't  stand  half  the  chance  to  pick  up  a 
beau." 

"  I  never  thought  of  one." 

"  Don't  tell  me.  When  the  sailors  pass,  you  look  up 
'  smiling  enough,  I  know." 

"Jane,  you  are  too  bad." 

"  Not  when  I  am  talking  with  a  merchant." 


THE  HUMPBACK.  1ST 

Sarah  did  not  care  to  prolong  the  conversation,  and 
so  she  was  rejoiced  when  Mrs.  Coburn  came  into  the 
room.  The  good  woman  made  her  usual  inquiries  re 
specting  business,  and  she  was  glad  to  learn  that  it  had 
been  very  much  increased. 

Occasionally,  Jane  would  pass  the  stand  of  Sarah, 
with  a  few  of  her  companions,  and  cast  a  sneering  look 
at  the  humpbacked  girl,  and  sometimes  make  a  re 
mark  which  was  not  pleasant  for  Sarah  to  hear.  One 
day  she  came  up  to  the  stand,  throwing  down  a  silver 
dollar,  saying  — 

"  Give  me  a  pound  of  peppermints." 

"  I  haven't  a  pound." 

"  Give  me  half  a  pound,  then." 

'"  I  haven't  that  quantity  even ;  it  is  seldom  that  I 
have  a  call  for  more  than  two  or  three  cents'  worth  at  a 
time." 

"  Oh !  you  don't  keep  but  a  few  cents'  worth,  then," 
said  Jane,  winking  at  one  of  her  companions.  "  Well, 
give  us  a  pound  of  almonds." 

"  I  haven't  a  pound  of  any  thing." 

And  off  the  girls  went,  laughing  loud  enough  to  be 
heard  across  the  street.  Sarah  was  a  little  mortified, 
but  yet  she  pitied  the  folly  of  the  proud  and  haughty 
Jane  and  her  companions. 

A  few  years  passed,  and  Sarah  continued  her  busi 
ness,  and  with  great  success.  She  was  so  kind  and 
pleasant,  that  all  the  children  loved  to  trade  with  her. 
When  they  had  a  penny  to  spend,  they  would  run  down 
to  Miss  Edgar's  stall,  and  were  always  satisfied  with 
their  bargains. 

About  this  time,  the  good  mother  of  Jane  was  called 
from  her  family  by  death.  She  was  an  excellent  wo- 


188  THE   HUMPBACK. 

man,  and  all  the  neighbors  mourned  their  loss ;  none 
felt  her  loss  more  severely  than  Sarah.  Next  to  her 
mother  she  loved  Mrs.  Coburn ;  in  all  her  trials  she  had 
been  her  friend  and  counsellor.  It  was  to  be  regretted 
that  her  daughter  possessed  none  of  the  excellent  qual 
ities  of  her  mother.  Not  long  after  her  decease,  Jane 
mingled  in  the  gay  circles,  and  did  not  appear  to  be 
half  so  deeply  afflicted  as  the  poor  humpbacked  girl. 

Charles  Somers,  the  son  of  a  merchant,  had  for  some 
time  been  partial  to  Jane.  She  was  a  pretty  girl,  as  far 
as  outward  beauty  was  concerned,  and  this  attraction 
affected  young  Somers.  Occasionally,  as  hq  passed  by 
the  stall  of  Sarah,  he  would  stop  and  purchase  a  few 
articles  —  such  as  peaches,  apples,  and  pears.  He 
seemed  to  pity  the  unfortunate  girl,  and  sometimes 
stopped  a  few  moments  to  converse  with  her.  At  one 
time  he  passed  with  Jane,  and  stopped  to  buy  some 
thing,  when  Jane  made  some  unkind  remark.  Charles 
checked  her  by  saying,  "  That  unfortunate  young  wo 
man  deserves  a  great  deal  of  credit.  She  not  only  sup 
ports  herself  and  mother,  but  actually  gives  something 
to  those  poorer  than  she  is.  Besides  this,  she  has  a 
well-cultivated  mind,  and  were  it  not  for  her  Immp- 
.  back,  there  is  many  a  man  who  would  rejoice  to  make 
her  his  wife." 

"I  don't  think  much  of  her  myself,"  remarked 
Jane ;  "  I  never  saw  any  thing  so  attractive  about  her. 
She  always  obtruded  herself  into  our  house  when 
mother  was  living,  although  we  hinted  to  her  repeat 
edly  that  she  was  not  wanted.  We  haven't  seen  her 
much  of  late."  » 

"  I  never  heard  her  spoken  slightly  of  before." 

"  The  reason  is  people  don't  know  her.     She  always 


THE  HUMPBACK.  189 

looks  so  modest  and  saintlike  that  I  have  no  patience 
with  her.  To  hear  her  talk,  you  wouldn't  think  butter 
could  melt  in  her  mouth.  You  may  depend  upon  it, 
she  is  a  self-conceited,  deceitful  creature  —  that  I 
know." 

Being  but  little  acquainted  with  Sarah,  Charles  took 
to  be  correct  what  Jane  had  told  him,  and  after  that  was 
cautious  how  he  spoke  to  her,  and  never  again  purchased 
an  article  at  her  stand.  Sarah  noticed  the  appearance 
of  the  young  man,  and  supposed  he  had  been  influenced 
by  Jane ;  but  not  hearing  what  had  been  said,  she  had 
no  opportunity  to  defend  herself.  She  continued  to 
sell  and  to  buy,  while  her  business  rapidly  increased 
year  by  year.  Every  Saturday  night,  she  would  place 
in  her  mother's  care,  what  she  had  made  during  the 
week,  which  was  carefully  put  aside  in  silver  money. 

For  ten  years,  had  Sarah  been  attentive  to  her  little 
business,  and  no  one  but  herself  and  mother  knew  how 
well  she  had  succeeded,  and  how  much  money  she  had 
in  her  mother's  chest.  During  this  period,  Mr.  Co- 
burn  had  married  a  second  wife,  who  was  called  an  ex 
travagant  woman,  and  it  was  thought  he  had  not  pros 
pered  of  late  as  in  former  years.  Jane  was  still  waited 
upon  by  Mr.  Somers,  who,  it  was  said,  was  worth  prop 
erty  and  intended  to  be  married  in  a  short  time.  Jane 
and  Sarah  seldom  met ;  they  had  scarcely  exchanged 
words  for  two  years.  But  Jane,  according  to  all  ap 
pearances,  had  not  changed  for  the  better.  She  was 
still  proud  and  haughty,  and  looked  with  contempt 
upon  Sarah,  and  all  those  she  considered  beneath  her. 

In  the  course  of  time,  Mr.  Coburn  failed  in  busi 
ness,  his  creditors  having  attached  his  stock  and  house. 
This  put  a,  damper  upon  the  haughty  spirit  of  Jane, 


190  THE  HUMPBACK. 

who  had  never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing.  She  thought 
her  father's  affairs  were  on  a  perfectly  safe  footing. 
And  now  she  even  flattered  herself  that  his  failure 
would  not  be  a  bad  one,  and  that  in  the  end  he  would 
make  money  out  of  it,  as  some  others  had  done  before 
him.  But  when  her  father  told  her  that  his  house  must 
be  sold  to  pay  his  debts,  she  began  in  some  measure  to 
realize  her  situation. 

The  beautiful  house  of  Mr.  Coburn  was  advertised 
for  sale  "  at  a  bargain,"  and  those  who  wished  to  pur 
chase  were  invited  on  the  premises  to  see  the  house. 
Among  others  who  called  was  Sarah  Edgar.  As  soon 
as  Jane  saw  her,  with  a  curl  of  scorn  upon  her  lip,  she 
said  — 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  intend  to  buy  our  house ;  you 
have  made  enough  selling  candy." 
,    "  Well,  Jane,  that  is  not  an  impossible  thing." 

"  Per-haps  you  may,  miss ;  it  would  be  a  fine  place 
for  an  apple-woman." 

"  I  think  so  too.  I  should  like  to  be  the  owner  o.f  as 
fine  a  house." 

"  Oh,  lordy,  and  you  should.  I  guess  it  would  take 
all  the  candy-women  hi  town  to  buy  it,  even  if  part  of 
them  were  sold  for  what  they  think  they  are  worth." 

"  Perhaps  it  would,  Miss  Coburn ;  but  we  shall  see." 

"Impudence!  —  I  detest  those  low-bred  people," 
muttered  Jane,  as  she  closed  the  door  in  the  face  of 
Sarah. 

As  Mr.  Coburn  and  his  family  were  sitting  in  the 
room  a  day  or  two  after  this  conversation,  the  gentle 
man  who  had  been  appointed  to  sell  the  house  was  in 
troduced. 

"  Mr.  Coburn,  I  come  to  inform  you  that  I  have  ef 
fected  a  sale  of  the  house,"  said  he. 


THE  HUMPBACK.  191 

"All!  —  and  how  did  you  sell  it;  —  for  cash  or 
credit?" 

"  For  cash,  as  soon  as  the  deed  is  made  out.  It  was 
sold  for  forty-five  hundred  dollars." 

"  Who  was  the  purchaser  ?  " 

"  Miss  Edgar." 

"  Who  ?  "  said  the  astonished  man. 

"  Miss  Sarah  Edgar,  'the  young  woman  who  keeps  a 
little  stall  in Street." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  Where  in  the  world  did  she  raise 
that  amount  ? " 

"I  cannot  say;  but  she  has  bought  it,  and  tells  me 
that  the  money  is  ready  as  soon  as  she  can  have  a  de.ed." 

Who  can  describe  the  feelings  of  Jane  when  this  fact 
was  announced  ?  We  shall  not  attempt  it.  It  will  be 
sufficient  to  say  that  she  was  fully  repaid  for  all  her  un- 
kindness  to  the  once  poor  and  unfortunate  girl. 

The  next  day  Sarah  took  possession  of  the  house, 
but  told  Mr.  Coburn  that  he  need  not  be  in  a  hurry  to 
remove.  "  On  account  of  your  wife's  kindness  to  me 
in  years  past,  you  may  remain  in  the  house  at  present, 
and  nothing  shall  be  charged  you  for  the  rent." 

Mr.  Coburn  thanked  her  with  tears. 

After  the  failure  of  the  merchant,  Charles  Somers 
was  less  attentive  to  Jane,  and  finally  forsook  her ;  he 
could  not  feel  any  confidence  in  a  woman  who  had  de 
ceived  him,  as  Jane  had  done  repeatedly,  more  espe 
cially  in  what  she  said  respecting  Sarah  Edgar. 

In  a  year  after  Sarah  purchased  the  house,  Mr.  Co- 
burn  removed  into  a  smaller  dwelling,  while  Sarah  and 
her  mother  took  the  house.  Not  many  months  passed 
before  the  humpbacked  girl  was  married ;  yes,  Sarah 
became  a  happy  bride,  the  wife  of  one  of  the  best  and 


192  THE  HUMPBACK. 

most  influential  men  in  town.     Charles  Somers  was  her 
husband. 

Females  should  learn  a  lesson  from  this  story. 
Never  look  upon  the  deformed  an-d  the  poor  as  beneath 
you  ;  especially  if  your  parents  are  wealthy.  The  time 
may  come  when  you  will  be  reduced  while  they  are  ex 
alted.  Never  ridicule  poverty  or  deformity.  It  was 
this  disposition  that  ruined  —  utterly  ruined  Jane  Co- 
burn.  She  is  now  a  woman  of  some  fifty  years  of  age, 
and  is  so  poor  that  she  is  obliged  to  take  in  shirts 
to  make,  at  twelve  cents  apiece,  or  she  would  suffer  for 
the  necessaries  of  life.  There  are  scores  just  like  her, 
proud,  superficial,  and  overbearing.  Unless  they  re 
form,  and  begin  to  live  as  they  ought,  and  that  speedily, 
we  can  safely  predict  for  them  a  life  of  poverty  and 
wretchedness. 


POPULAR  AND  UNPOPULAR. 


CHAPTER    I. 

How  beautiful,  when  life  and  mind 

Conspire  to  make  the  wretched  blest ! 
With  acts  of  mercy,  unconfined, 

Reaching  to  every  sorrowing  breast ! 
The  heart  thus  nurtured  in  the  school, 

By  wisdom  and  by  mercy  taught, 
Obeys  the  Saviour's  golden  rule, 

In  life  and  act  —  in  word  and  thought. 
This  lesson  be  it  mine  to  learn, 

With  love  to  God  and  faith  sincere ; 
In  every  form,  a  friend  discern, 

That  pines  in  want  or  sheds  a  tear. 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Somers,  I  am  not  partial  to 
this  dull  sort  of  life.  Law  is  a  dry  study,  more  es 
pecially  to  a  person  of  an  active  temperament." 

"Law  is  just  the  thing  for  me,  Mason.  I  like  it. 
There  is  no  labor,  comparatively,  —  no  hurry  about  it; 
you  can  take  your  own  time  to  study." 

"It  is  exceedingly  difficult  for  a  young  lawyer  to  get 
ahead.  If  he  have  talents  and  ambition,  they  are 
crushed  before  the  learning  and  experience  of  the 
older  members  of  the  bar.-  It  is  one  of  the  poorest 
professions  in  the  world  in  which  to  succeed,  or  to 
make  money." 

"  You  mistake  altogether.  I  shall  go  ahead  in  a  few 
17 


194  POPULAR  AND  UNPOPULAR. 

years  and  become  wealthy.  What  do  you  prefer  to  the 
study  of  law  ?  " 

"  A  mechanical  trade,  Somers ;  give  me  the  mechanic 
to  the  lawyer.  His  business  is  much  more  pleasant, 
his  time  better  employed,  and  he  is  not  perplexed  and 
harassed  almost  to  death  to  make  a  living." 

"  A  foolish  idea,  Mason.  Who  would  be  a  mechanic  ? 
They  have  to  dig  and  dig,  from  one  week  to  another  — 
year  in  and  out  —  and  then  they  make  but  a  poor  liv 
ing.  Besides,  they  are  not  half  so  much  respected  as 
lawyers  are.  Who  are  the  candidates  for  most  of  the 
important  offices  ?  Lawyers.  Who  receive  the  largest 
salaries  for  public  services  ?  Lawyers.  Wherever  you 
hear  of  good  speeches  or  able  arguments,  you  will  find 
they  are  by  members  of  this  profession." 

"  I  might  inquire,  Somers,  who  have  been  the  most 
beneficial  to  society,  mechanics  or  lawyers  ?  And  you 
cannot  deny  that  the  former  have  been  of  the  greatest 
service  to  our  country.  Franklin  and  Sherman,  you 
know,  were  mechanics,  and  although  they  did  not  make 
speeches,  what  they  said  was  to  the  purpose ;  and  be 
cause  they  were  short  and  comprehensive,  everybody 
listened  to  them.  Give  me  a  trade  to  the  law." 

"  And  give  me  a  profession  to  a  trade.  I  like  the  law 
and  there's  no  mistake." 

"  As  soon  as  I  can  get  father's  consent,  and  a  good 
opportunity  presents,  I  will  throw  aside  Coke  and 
Blackstone,  for  something  more  congenial  to  my  taste." 

James  Somers  was  the  son  of  a  merchant.  His 
father  had  given  him  a  college  education,  after  which 
he  put  him  into  an  office  to  study  the  profession  of  the 
law.  Here  he  became  acquainted  with  Henry  Mason, 
a  young  man  of  his  own  age,  who  had  a  good  edu- 


POPULAR  AND  UNPOPULAR.  195 

cation,  and  had  been  over  persuaded  by  his  father, 
who  possessed  a  handsome  property,  to  study  the  pro 
fession  of  the  law.  Henry  despised  the  business,  and 
had  often  told  his  parent  that  a  trade  would  be  more 
congenial  to  his  feelings,  and  more  profitable  and  useful 
in  the  end.  But  his  father  would  not  listen  to  him. 
Being  a  proud-spirited  man,  the  idea  of  his  son's  working 
at  a  trade  was  something  he  could  not  endure.  It  was 
not  respectable  enough.  All  the  .arguments  Henry 
could  produce  had  not  the  least  effect  upon  his  father ; 
so  he  continued  at  his  studies. 

At  the  expiration  of  two  or  three  years,  Somers  was 
admitted  to  practise  at  the  bar,  and  removed  to  a  coun 
try  town  and  commenced  business.  In  the  mean  time, 
Mason,  who  had  never  relinquished  his  determination 
to  learn  a  trade,  received  permission  of  a  friend,  a 
printer,  to  enter  his  office  and  work.  Having  naturally 
a  quick  turn  of  mind,  it  was  not  many  months  before 
he  became  an  expert  workman.  With  not  much  ef 
fort  he  could  pick  up  a  thousand  types  in  an  hour,  and 
work  off  a  token  at  the  press  in  about  the  same  time. 
When  Henry  thought  he  had  become  master  of  his 
trade,  he  removed  to  a  large  town  and  established  a 
paper.  Possessing  a  strong  mind,  and  having  the  ad 
vantage  of  a  good  education,  he  made  an  interesting 
and  popular  sheet.  By  his  industrious  habits,  he  se 
cured  a  great  deal  of  work,  and  being  a  man  that  every 
body  respected,  he  commanded  as  much  influence  as 
any  person  in  town,  and  in  a  few  years  was  put  up  as  a 
candidate  to  the  State  legislature.  He  protested 
against  it;  said  he  could  not  leave  his  business  and 
questioned  his  ability  to  discharge  his  duty  as1  he 
ought.  But  the  people  would  not  excuse  him,  and 


196  POPULAR  AND  UNPOPULAR. 

Henry  was  elected.  He  did  not  seek  the  office  ;  he  was 
no  politician,  but  as  he  was  chosen  by  the  vote  of  the 
inhabitants,  he  went  to  his  task.  It  was  said  that  Ma 
son  was  one  of  the  ablest  men  who  represented  the 
state.  Calm  and  dispassionate,  he  never  let  an  act 
pass — he  never  made  or  seconded  a  motion  even  — 
without  forethought  and  deliberation.  He  consulted 
no  individual  interest,  he  approved  of  no  mere  party 
measure,  and  so  he  gained  the  respect  of  all.  When  he 
spoke,  it  was  to  the  purpose ;  he  never  descended  to 
scurility  or  low  slang ;  but  was  perfectly  honorable  in 
all  his  acts.  Seldom  did  one  of  his  speeches  last  over 
ten  or  fifteen  minutes.  He  was  .short,  comprehensive, 
and  to  the  point,  and  was  a  mortal  enemy  to  inflated 
words,  long  arguments,  and  extended  debates.  No 
persuasion  would  induce  Mason  to  be  run  as  a  candi 
date  for  office  again.  He  was  offered  many  high  and 
important  situations,  but  he  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  them 
all.  He  could  do  more  good  in  an  humble  sphere,  ex 
ert  a  better  influence,  and  enjoy  more  of  life.  He  might 
have  been  a  senator  in  Congress,  but  he  rejected  the 
offer  at  once ;  but  such  an  office  as  a  school  committee 
or  an  overseer  of  the  poor,  he  willingly  accepted.  Here 
was  where  he  could  be  useful,  and  see  the  happy  effects 
of  his  labors.  In  his  paper  he  strove  to  awaken  the 
sympathy  of  the  public  in  behalf  of  the  suffering  and 
nee'dy,  and  through  his  efforts,  many  a  widow's  heart 
was  made  to  sing  for  joy,  and  many  an  orphan  child 
was  housed,  clothed,  and  instructed. 

Mason  chose  for  his  bosom  companion,  a  lady  who 
had  been  brought  up  by  sensible  and  judicious  parents 
—  a  woman  who  had  been  taught  to  work  from  her  ear 
liest  years.  Sarah  Averd  had  learned  a  trade,  and  by 


POPULAR  AND  UNPOPULAR.          197 

her  habits  acquired  the  name  of  a  worthy  and  capable 
woman.  Her  time  had  not  been  spent  in  idle  visits  or 
senseless  gossiping ;  she  did  not  consult  her  glass  oftener 
than  her  heart.  It  was  not  Sarah's  ambition  to  shine 
in  the  ballroom,  or  at  the  public  assembly  ;  but  it 
was  her  pride,  to  earn  her  own  living,  assist  her  par 
ents,  and  live  a  useful  and  virtuous  life.  For  many 
months  had  Mason  watched  the  conduct  and  studied 
the  character  of  Sarah ;  but  no  one  knew  it  but  him 
self.  Many  a  proud  and  fashionable  lady,  dressed  most 
expensively,  and  putting  on  a  thousand  airs,  crossed 
his  track,  in  hopes  of  winning  the  talented  and  popular 
man ;  while  the  neighbors  wondered  which  of  the 
wealthy  girls  would  be  so  lucky  as  to  win  him.  No 
one  had  the  most  distant  idea  of  his  choosing  the  poor, 
retired,  and  modest  Sarah  Averd,  who  had  learned  a 
trade,  and  now  supported  herself  by  her  needle. 
And  she  as  little  thought  of  what  was  about  to  take 
place,  as  any  of  her  neighbors.  When  Mason  sent 
some  poor  child  to  her  to  be  clothed  at  his  expense,  she 
never  once  dreamed  that  he  was  penetrating  her  char 
acter  and  studying  her  habits,  as  it  proved  to  be  in  the 
sequel.  Sarah  loved  Henry,  but  she  never  dared  to 
hope  that  he  would  prove  more  than  an  acquaintance. 
But  to  the  utter  astonishment  of  the  rich  and  fashiona 
ble,  and  proud  and  self-sufficient  young  ladies  of  the 
town,  Mason  became  the  husband  of  the  poor  tailoress, 
Sarah  Averd.  Henry  was  an  excellent  husband,  and 
Sarah  made  him  one  of  the  best  of  wives. 


CHAPTER    II. 

Oh,  let  me  know  there  is  but  one, 

One  friendly  heart  to  sympathize, 
And  make  my  daily  cares  its  own, 

And  bid  my  drooping  spirits  rise  — 
To  speak  when  others  are  unkind, 

In  melting  tones  of  tenderness, 
And  round  the  stricken  soul  to  bind 

The  cords  of  love,  to  heal  and  bless : 
Oh,  let  me  know  but  this,  and  I 

Shall  joyful  pass  the  vale  of  tears, 
See  light  beyond  each  frowning  sky, 

Dispelling  doubts  and  gloomy  fears. 

JAMES  SOMEBS,  after  he  had .  opened  an  office  in  the 
village  that  he  had  chosen  for  his  future  residence,  used 
the  most  strenuous  efforts  to  make  himself  popular.  He 
exerted  himself  to  become  acquainted  with  the  promi 
nent  men  of  both  political  parties,  and  generally  co 
incided  with  their  views.  He  pretended  not  to  be  a 
strong  advocate  on  either  side  ;  waiting,  before  he  took 
a  stand,  to  ascertain  which  was  the  stronger  party,  and 
which  the  most  likely  to  put  him  into  office,  for  to  be 
elected  to  some  lucrative  office  was  the  height  of  his 
ambition.  He  attended  meeting  one  sabbath  with  one 
denomination,  and  the  next  with  another.  He  had  no 
preference.  This  was  his  policy  —  if  he  should  be 
come  a  candidate  for  office,  his  religious  views  should 
be  no  objection  to  his  receiving  the  votes  of  the  people. 
By  pursuing  this  course,  Somers*  gained  the  respect  of 
but  few,  excepting  those,  who,  like  himself,  were  am 


POPULAR'  AND  UNPOPULAR.          199 

bitious  and  selfish,  and  who  hoped,  by  favoring  him,  in 
turn  to  receive  a  like  reward. 

The  time  approached  when  it  was  necessary  to  deter 
mine  upon  a  candidate  for  the  legislature.  But  among 
three  or  four  prominent  men,  it  was  difficult  to  make  a 
selection.  Each  had  his  friends,  and  it  was  the  object 
with  the  people  —  at  least  with  many  of  them  —  to  put 
up  the  individual  who  would  run  the  beet,  and  not  the 
best  mam  Finally,  they  pitched  upon  Some.rs,  but  oth 
ers  taking  offence,  voted  for  another  candidate,  and  the 
poor  fellow  was  defeated.  Contrary  to  the  expecta 
tions  of  many,  the  opposing  gentleman  received  a  ma 
jority  of  the  votes,  which  showed  the  unpopularity  of  the 
young  lawyer.  Somers  was  extremely  mortified ;  his 
ambition  received  a  check,  and  he  raved  for  many  a 
month  against  a  few  individuals,  whom  he  supposed 
were  chiefly  instrumental  of  his  defeat. 

For  sometime  Somers  labored  to  get  into  office,  but 
the  more  he  labored,  the  less  popular  he  became.  If 
the  people  disliked  him  as  a  man,  they  detested  him  as 
a  lawyer.  He  would  frequently  sue  and  serve  a  writ, 
when,  by  a  milder  course,  he  would  have  better  suc 
ceeded  and  made  fewer  enemies.  He  was  poor,  but  he 
should  have  studied  his  interest.  Sometimes  he  would 
•go  to  the  clerk  of  a  militia  company  and  request  a  job  to 
sue  those  who  did  not  appear  in  the  ranks  on  review  or 
muster-days,  pledging  himself  not  to  charge  for  ser 
vices  unless  he  succeeded  in  getting  the  case.  Such 
proceedings,  together  with  his  generally  niggardly  con 
duct,  secured  him  the  title  of  the  "  mean  pettifogger." 
At  a  town-meeting,  the  citizens,  who  had  noticed  his 
treatment  to  others  as  well  as  themselves,  and  knew 
his  ambitious  turn  of  mind,  nominated  him  for  the  of- 


200  POPULAR  AND  UNPOPULAR. 

fice  of  hogreeve,  and  he  was  chosen  almost  unani 
mously.  When  the  vote  was  announced  the  house  rung 
again  with 'the  shouts  of  the  people. 

When  Somers  was  informed  of  his  promotion  to  the 
important  office,  he  was  so  full  of  wrath  that  he  actu 
ally  struck  the  informer  a  severe  blow,  which  was  in 
stantly  returned,  and  a  regular  fight  ensued.  The 
lawyer  was  fairly  beaten,  and  bawled  lustily  for  quar 
ters,  which  brought  out  the  neighbors,  and  further 
blows  were  prevented.  Somers  was  prosecuted  and 
paid  his  fine  for  the  attack. 

Among  the  few  friends  of  Somers  in  the  town,  was  a 
Mr.  Blake,  one  of  the  richest  men  in  the  place.  He 
had  a  daughter,  for  whom  the  lawyer  had  manifested 
some  partiality.  Jane  was  the  very  counterpart  of  her 
lover.  She  had  a  violent  temper,  was  vindictive  and 
resolute,  and  as  proud  as  Lucifer.  Jane  had  nothing 
to  recommend  her  but  her  father's  property,  he  be 
ing  very  rich,  and  she  the  sole  heiress.  As  there  was 
nothing  prepossessing  about  her,  it  was  evident  to  all 
but  herself  and  her  parents,  that  wealth  was  the  magnet 
that  drew  the  lawyer  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Blake. 
Jane  had  been  indulged  in  all  she  desired,  scarcely 
was  a  wish  ungratified.  To  balls,  to  parties  of  pleas 
ure —  anywhere  and  everywhere,  unmindful  of  ex 
pense —  would  the  daughter  be  gallanted.  She  sel 
dom  did  any  work.  It  was  not  necessary,  she  thought, 
as  she  would  have  no  occasion  to  labor.  Her  father's 
property  was  sufficient  to  make  her  comfortable,  with 
out  her  putting  forth  the  least  exertion  to  keep  herself 
from  rusting  out,  and  promoting  her  health. 

Somers  was  married  to  Jane.  We  need  not  say  the 
wedding  was  a  splendid  affair ;  we  wish  we  could  say  as 


POPULAR  AND  UNPOPULAR.          201 

much  of  the  sequel ;  but  the  truth  will  not  permit  us. 
They  began  housekeeping  on  an  extensive  scale ;  hired 
a  large  'dwelling,  furnished  it  throughout,  and  em 
ployed  one  or  two  domestics.  If  there  were  no  coun 
ter  currents  in  life,  they  might  have  gone  on  smoothly, 
but  not  pleasantly,  for  their  dispositions  forbade  their 
being  happy. 

The  father  of  Jane  met  with  two  or  three  reverses 
the  same  year  of  his  daughter's  marriage,  which  sunk 
the  larger  por.tion  of  his  property.  About  the  same 
time  he  was  involved  in  a  lawsuit,  and  losing  his  case, 
it  cost  him  a  large  amount,  so  that  he  had  barely 
enough  left  to  make  himself  comfortable.  Somers, 
who  had  depended  mostly  on  Mr.  Blake  to  support  him 
in  his  extravagances,  now  found  it  impossible  to  pay  his 
debts.  Being  dunned  every  day,  with  no  means  of 
paying,  and  having  an  expensive  wife,  he  was  obliged 
to  give  up  housekeeping  and  go  to  her  father's.  They 
lived  upon  the  old  gentleman  about  a  year,  when  one 
day,  being  a  little  piqued,  he  told  Somers  he  could  not 
support  them  much  longer.  "  I  am  willing  to  let  Jane 
stay  here,"  said  he,  "but  as  for  keeping  you  both,  I 
cannot  do  it ;  I  am  not  able." 

Exceedingly  unpopular  as  the  lawyer  was,  and  having 
no  business  to  speak  of,  and  about  being  turned  out  of 
dbors,  he  hardly  knew  what  course  to  take,  especially 
as  he  had  no  money.  Jane  appeared  perfectly  indiffer 
ent  to  him ;  for  of  late  he  had  taken  to  drink,  and  it 
had  been  said  that  he  went  home  occasionally  a  little 
intoxicated.  Somers  still  continued  to  live  with  the 
old  gentleman,  till  a  quarrel  ensued,  and  then  he  for 
bade  his  entering  the  house. 

The  lawyer  left  the  house  in  a  rage  one  morning,  and 


202  POPULAR  AND  UNPOPULAR. 

no  one  knew  whither  he  went,  and  but  few  felt  inter 
ested  enough  in  him  to  inquire.  It  was  his  determination 
to  go  to  some  small  village,  and  if  he  could  find  an  open 
ing,  establish  himself  in  business.  He  travelled  from 
one  town  to  another,  without  determining  where  to 
stop,  till  at  last  his  small  amount  of  funds  was  entirely 
exhausted.  In  despair  he  resorted  to  the  intoxicating 
bowl,  and  was  beastly  drunk  about  the  streets  for  a  few 
days,  till  at  last  he  was  taken  up  by  the  overseers  of  the 
poor,  and  sent  to  the  almshouse.  He  was  ragged  and 
dirty ;  an  entire  stranger  to  the  people.  When  he  be 
came  sober,  he  refused  to  give  his  name  or  his  busi 
ness.  One  of  the  overseers  approached  him,  spoke 
kindly  to  him,  and  seemed  to  feel  for  his  peculiar  situ 
ation.  He  thought  he  could  discern  in  the  face  of  the 
•poor  man  something  that  indicated  intelligence,  and 
he  did  not  doubt  that  he  had  seen  better  days. 

"  Friend,"  said  the  gentleman  after  he  had  conversed 
with  him  kindly  for  half  an  hour,  "  tell  me  where  you 
came  from  and  who  you  are,  and  if  I  can  render  you 
any  assistance,  it  shall  be  done." 

"  I  cannot  tell  you ;  I  am  ashamed  to  tell,"  said  the 
man,  weeping. 

"  Perhaps  I  can  be  the  means  of  benefiting  you ;  cer 
tainly  it  will  not  be  for  your  disadvantage  to  inform  me 
of  your  true  situation." 

"_  Sir,  I  have  seen  better  days.  I  have  been  prosper 
ous  ;  but  my  ambition,  my  love  of  gain  and  pleasure, 
have  ruined  me." 

"  I  thought  as  much.  Your  language,  your  whole 
appearance  indicated  that  you  were  once  happy  and 
prosperous.  But  pray  tell  me  your  name !  " 

"  You    shall  hear  it,  sir,  for  you  appear  to  feel  for 


POPULAB  AND  UNPOPULAR.          203 

the  unfortunate,  the  poor,  and  the  destitute.  My  name 
is  Somers." 

"  What !  James  Somers  ?  "  and  the  truth  flashed  at 
once  upon  the  gentleman  that  an  old  friend  was  before 
him. 

"  That  is  my  name,  sir,"  said  the  poor  man,  some 
what  agitated. 

"  Can  this  be  my  early  friend,  Somers  ?  "  and  he  fell 
upon  his  neck  and  embraced  him,  though  the  poor  fel 
low  was  covered  with  nothing  but  rags. 

At  such  strange  conduct,  Somers  wept  aloud. 
"  Pray,  sir,  what  can  this  mean?  "he  asked  in  aston 
ishment. 

"  I  am  your  old  friend,  Henry  Mason." 

"  Good  Heaven !  can  it  be  ?  God  be  praised  that  I 
have  fallen  into  such  hands !  My  kind  friend  —  but  I 
cannot  express  the  feelings  of  my  heart." 

"0  James,  I  never  thought  to  see  you  in  such  a 
condition ;  but  come  with  me,  you  shall  have  a  home 
in  my  own  house.  Come  with  me." 

"I  dare  not  go.  Look  at  my  condition,"  and  he 
wept  like  a  child. 

""  Come  with  me  —  you  shall  come,"  and  Mason  led 
him  from  the  house,  helped  him  into  his  chaise  at  the 
door,  and  drove  to  his  dwelling,  where  he  was  treated 
with  the  greatest  kindness  and  attention. 

Mrs.  Mason  interested  herself  in  his  behalf,  and  in  a 
few  days  the  poor  outcast  became  an  altered  being.  He 
was  furnished  with  suitable  clothing,  encouraged  to 
hope  for  the  best,  while  Mason  exerted  himself  to  the 
utmost  to  get  his  friend  into  business. 

The  lawyer  had  learned  an  important  lesson  during 
his  past  career  and  now  resolved  to  pursue  a  different 


204  POPULAR  AND  UNPOPULAR. 

course.  Through  the  -  instrumentality  of  Mason,  who 
furnished  him  an  office,  he  commenced  the  practice  of 
law,  and  his  business  gradually  increased.  Somers  be 
ing  perfectly  attentive  to  his  affairs,  he  prospered  be 
yond  his  most  sanguine  expectations.  After  a  year 
had  gone  by,  he  sent  for  his  wife,  who  had  materially 
changed  for  the  better  since  he  parted  from  her.  She 
had  seen  the  effects  of  her  folly,  by  her  parents  being  re 
duced  in  their  circumstances,  and  she  resolved  to  work 
and  support  herself  by  her  own  hands.  But  it  came 
hard  upon  her  at  first. 

The  lawyer  and  his  wife  removed  to  a  small  tene 
ment,  were  prudent  and  frugal,  and  succeeded  better 
than  they  had  anticipated.  In  the  course  of  a  few 
years  Somers  was  able  to  purchase  a  dwelling,  and  for  a 
long  period  was  considered  one  of  the  ablest  lawyers  in 
the  county.  He  never  forgot  his  old  friend ;  but  years 
after  his  kindness  to  him,  expressed  his  heartfelt  grati 
tude  in  tears. 

Mason  became  one  of  the  wealthiest,  as  certainly  he 
was  the  most  influential  man  in  the  place.  Everybody 
loved  him.  Wherever  there  was  sickness,  or  distress, 
or  sorrow,  he  was  ready  to  render  assistance  and  do 
good.  His  whole  life  was  spent  in  acts  of  benevolence, 
and  thousands  were  made  better  and  happier  through 
his  instrumentality. 


THE  IMPRUDENT  STEP. 


The  flower  when  crushed  will  send  perfume, 

The  riven  tree  may  sprout  again, 
And  spring  will  raise  to  life  and  bloom 

Bleak  autumn's  melancholy  train  ; 
But  human  hearts  whene'er  they  feel 

The  frosts  of  unrequited  love, 
No  earthly  power  the  wound  can  heal, 
,  Till  death  the  nialady  remove. 

HAERY  HEYWOOD  !  how  I  loved  him  when  we  were 
boys  together,  sporting  over  the  fields  and  hills,  chasing 
the  bee  and  butterfly,  or  culling  the  new-blown  flowers ! 
Then  he  was  happy.  The  future  was  pictured  bright 
before  his  young  imagination.  He  saw  no  cloudy  sky 
—  no  chilling  storm  —  no  winter  of  gloom;  but  a 
bright  sun  and  a  pure  heaven  were  ever  above  him. 
The  green  earth,  sprinkled  with  ten  thousand  flowers, 
smiled  before  him.  A  kind  father  and  an  indulgent 
mother  doated  upon  an  only  son.  Nothing  was  denied 
to  him  that  would  gratify  his  desires.  In  a  round  of 
pleasure,  the  years  flew  by,  and  Henry  was  on  the  verge 
of  manhood.  Genteel  and  accomplished,  possessing  a 
good  disposition  and  a  fine  mind,  he  won'  the  respect 
and  love  of  all  who  knew  him,  particularly  the  affec 
tion  of  the  kind  and  gentle  Louisa.  Miss  Mentor  was 
the  daughter  of  a  neighbor  in  comfortable  circum 
stances,  where  Henry  had  been  a  constant  visitor  from 
18 


206  THE   IMPRUDENT   STEP. 

his  childhood.  Now  that  he  had  grown  to  manhood, 
his  feelings  had  changed  somewhat  in  regard  to  Louisa. 
His  regard  to  her  had  ripened  into  an  attachment ; 
and  throughout  the  village  it  was  understood  that  young 
Heywood  and  Louisa  were  destined  for  each  other. 
"  It  will  be  a  fine  match,"  was  the  common  remark ; 
"  their  dispositions  are  so  nearly  alike,  they  cannot  fail 
of  being  happy."  The  young  lady  was  not  handsome, 
but  she  was  good.  Possessing  a  generous  heart  and  an 
agreeable  disposition,  she  was  calculated  to  make  any 
one  happy  who  should  cultivate  her  acquaintance. 

About  this  time  the  father  of  Louisa  sickened  and 
died.  The  faithful  daughter  watched  beside  the  bed  of 
her  parent  day  and  night,  administering  to  his  wants 
and  smoothing  his  dying  pillow.  A  short  time  before 
the  fatal  termination  of  Mr.  Mentor's  illness,  a  day  had 
been  appointed  by  Henry  for  an  excursion  of  pleasure. 
Presuming  that  her  father  would  be  better  in  a  few 
days,  Louisa  gave  her  consent  to  accompany  her  friend ; 
but  when  the  time  arrived,  she  told  Heywood  that  she 
must  be  excused  on  account  of  the  illness  of  her  father. 
"  When  I  made  the  promise,"  said  she,  "  I  thought  he 
would  be  better  by  to-day,  but  he  has  been  growing 
worse,  and  now  it  would  not  be  prudent  for  me  to  leave 
him  in  his  present  critical  situation." 

The  color  rushed  to  Henry's  cheeks,  as  he  said,  "  I 
have  made  all  the  arrangements  and  you  must  go ;  you 
will  not  be  missed  one  day,  and  certainly  your  father 
will  be  no  worse." 

"  I  cannot  leave  him.  I  could  not  enjoy  myself  when 
father  is  so  feeble,  and  then  if  he  should  be  worse,  I 
should  have  it  to  reflect  upon  through  life.  Can't  you 
put  off'going  till  some  future  day  ?  " 


THE   IMPRUDENT   STEP.  207 

"  No,  I  cannot  put  it  off.  Come,  get  ready  and  go  ; 
it  is  getting  late." 

"  I  must  decline,  unwilling  as  I  am  to  do  so ;  for  I 
cannot  leave  my  father." 

"  Then  you  will  not  go,  I  am  to  understand  ?  "  said 
Henry,  manifesting  a  little  displeasure. 

"With  all  my  heart  I  would  go,  if  it  were  not  my 
duty  to  take  care  of  my  father.  It  will  not  do  to  leave 
him,  and  sorry  as  I  am  to  do  it,  I  must  decline ; "  and 
a  tear  was  in  her  eye  as  she  spoke. 

"  Very  well,  you  will  be  sorry  for  it." 

"  Now  don't  censure  me,  Henry,  because  I  do  what  I 
believe  to  be  my  bounden  duty." 

"  You  could  go  as  well  as  not  if  you  were  so  disposed, 
but  I  sha'n't  ask  you  again,"  and  so  saying,  the  young 
man  left  the  house,  leaving  the  dutiful  girl  in  tears. 

Henry  went  directly  to  Mr.  Ho  well's  and  invited  his 
daughter  Jane  to  accompany  him,  who  readily  ac 
cepted. 

The  Howells  were  noted  for  their  pride  and  poverty, 
and  Jane  was  disliked  among  her  acquaintances  on  ac 
count  of  the  foolish  airs  she  was  accustomed  to  put  on, 
and  for  her  envious  disposition.  She  had  more  than 
once  circulated  a  story,  which,  among  those  who  were 
not  acquainted  with  both  parties,  would  reflect  upon  the 
character  of  Louisa  Mentor.  These  two  young  ladies 
spoke  when  they  met,  but  were  not  on  the  best  of 
terms.  Louisa  had  often  condemned  Jane's  deceitful, 
tattling  disposition,  and  Henry  had  always  coincided 
with  her.  Perhaps  it  was  for  this  reason  that  he  now 
had  invited  her  to  accompany  him.  He  knew  the  feel 
ing  it  would  produce  in  the  breast  of  the  sensitive 
girl,  and  he  thus  cruelly  revenged  her.  "When  it  was 


208  THE  IMPRUDENT  STEP. 

known  throughout  the  village  that  Heywood  had  gone 
in  company  with  Miss  Howell,  it  opened  the  door  for  a 
great  deal  of  gossip.  A  few  who  were  envious  of 
those  whose  characters  stood  higher  than  their  own, 
were  much  delighted  and  hoped  it  would  tend  to  break 
up  the  match  between  the  young  man  and  Louisa,  and 
these  encouraged  Henry.  "  I  approve  of  your  choice," 
said  one.  "  She  is  much  more  accomplished  than  Miss 
Mentor,"  said  another.  "  It  is  the  best  step  you  have 
taken  for  many  a  day,"  -continued  a  third.  These  in 
dividuals  were  all  of  a  meddlesome  disposition,  and  the 
more  unhappiness  and  misery  they  could  produce,  the 
better  they  enjoyed  it.  Henry  was  unwise  enough  to 
consider  them  his  friends  and  listen  to  what  they  said. 
He  ceased  to  call  on  Louisa,  and  was  a  constant  visitor 
at  Miss  Howell's.  When  he  heard  of  the  death  of  Mr. 
Mentor,  he  was  on  the  point  of  calling  at  the  house,  — 
for  he  really  loved  the  dutiful  girl,  and  felt  sensibly 
her  situation,  being  deprived  of  a  kind  parent,  —  but 
self-will  predominated  over  his  better  nature  and  he 
yielded  to  his  bad  disposition. 

The  parents  of  Miss  Howell  did  their  utmost  to 
please  Henry  so  that  he  might  be  induced  to  continue 
his  visits  and  finally  take  their  daughter  for  his  com 
panion.  When  he  was  present,  all  was  love ;  there 
was  no  unpleasant  look  or  word ;  every  wish  of  his  was 
gratified. 

In  the  mean  time,  Louisa  looked  on  calmly  and  lisped 
not  a  word  against  the  man  she  loved.  The  loss  of  a 
tender  parent  had  filled  her  heart  with  grief,  and  the 
thought  that  her  attention  to  his  sick  chamber  had 
driven  her  friend  away,  gave  her  pain  and  sorrow  inde 
scribable.  But  she  could  not  see  that  she  had  erred. 


THE  IMPRUDENT   STEP.  209 

She  had  but  done  her  duty,  and  so  every  one  thought 
who  knew  the  circumstances  of  the  case. 

A  month  or  two  passed  by,  and  Henry  was  as  atten 
tive  as  ever  to  Jane,  and  it  was  settled  in  the  minds  of 
the  neighbors  that  he  was  engaged  to  the  haughty  girl. 
The  thought  preyed  deeply  in  the  breast  of  the  dutiful 
Louisa,  but  she  suffered  it  not  to  interfere  with  her 
duty.  She  bore  it  like  a  philosopher,  and  was  deter 
mined,  whatever  the  result  should  be,  to  submit  with 
out  a  murmuring  word.  There  were  peace  and  happi 
ness  in  her  cot.  The  thought  that  a  devoted  father 
and  excellent  husband  had  been  removed  by  death, 
would  sometimes  cause  a  feeling  of  sadness,  but  the 
mother  and  daughter  looked  to  Him  who  gave  and  took 
away,  and  felt  it  was  for  the  best.  But  when  Louisa 
thought  of  the  past— -when  she  was  happy  in  the  soci 
ety  of  Henry,  and  of  his  present  alienated  feelings,  it 
made  her  sorrowful  indeed.  Save  these  hours  of  sad 
ness,'  none  were  happier  than  they  —  none  had  a  better 
circle  of  friends  —  none  lived  more  peaceably  with  their 
neighbors.  There  were  two  or  three  young  men  in  the 
village  who  would  have  esteemed  it  an  honor  to  win  the 
love  and  approbation  of  Miss  Mentor,  but  she  would  en 
courage  the  visits  of  none,  save  those  who  called  upon 
her  as  neighbors  and  friends. 

Henry  would  often  pass  the  home  of  Louisa,  with  the 
vain  Miss  Howell  hanging  on  his  arm,  while  their  con 
versation  appeared  to  be  deep  and  earnest.  It  was  evi 
dent  that  Henry  wished  to  be  seen  by  Louisa,  and  make 
her  feel  regret  for  once  refusing  to  accompany  him  on 
an  excursion  of  pleasure.  But  she  witnessed  the  young 
man's  conduct  without  manifesting  the  least  displeasure. 
She  never  moved  aside  to  be  unnoticed  or  to  make  him 
18* 


210  THE  BIPEUDENT  STEP. 

feel  that  she  was  angry,  or  regretted  the  step  he  had 
taken.  She  thought  such  a  course  would  be  for  the 
best  in  the  end,  whatever  might  be  the  consequences. 
Miss  Mentor  continued  her  duties,  slept  as  soundly  as 
ever,  and  gave  no  one  occasion  'to  say  that  the  conduct 
of  Henry  had  worn  upon  her  spirits  or  broken  her 
heart. 

One  evening  Louisa  attended,  a  social  party  where 
Henry  and  Jane  were  present.  They  both  took  partic 
ular  care  to  let  her  see  their  affection  for  each  other ; 
just  as  the  reader  has  often  seen  two  simpletons  con 
duct  When  they  thought  they  were  made  for  each  other. 
When  the  party  broke  up,  in  going  home  Louisa  hap 
pened  to  be  but  a  short  distance  behind  the  lovers. 
They  were  talking  very  earnestly,  and  did  not  seem  to 
care  if  they  were  overheard. 

"I  wonder  how  Miss  Louisa  enjoyed  herself  to 
night  ? "  inquired  Jane. 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  said  Henry ;  "  she  tried  to 
appear  cheerful,  but  I  saw  that  she  was  not  very  pleas 
ant." 

"  Perhaps  she  regrets  her  past  course." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  she  does." 

"  She  is  a  foolish  girl,  and  I  always  knew  it." 

"  It  is  certain  she  doesn't  study  her  interest.  She  will 
never  get  a  husband ;  she  was  cut  out  for  an  old  maid. 
No  young  man  who  thinks  any  thing  of  himself,  ever 
goes  with  her.  She  has  been  trying  a  long  while  to  get 
one  of  the  Goodings  or  Charles  Hamilton  to  gallant 
her,  but  they  know  better." 

This  was  all  of  the  conversation  Louisa  heard ;  it  was 
enough  to  convince  her  that  she  had  lost  nothing  when 
Heywood  left  her  society  for  the  society  of  another.  It 


THE  IMPRUDENT  STEP.  211 

was  so  untrue  that  it  pained  her  to  the  heart.  But  it 
did  not  trouble  her  long.  She  did  not  look  alone  to 
earth  for  perfect  happiness. 

The  day  was  appointed  for  the  union  of  Henry  and 
Jane,  and  it  was  understood  to  be  their  intention  to 
have  a  splendid  wedding.  A  week  previous  to  the  cel 
ebration  of  the  nuptials,  a  young  man  made  his  appear 
ance  in  the  neighborhood.  He  was  dressed  in  the  ex 
treme  of  fashion,  and  appeared  to.  be  in  independent 
circumstances  by  the  manner  he  expended  his  money. 
He  had  lately  graduated  from  a  lawyer's  office,  and  had 
come  to  the  village  to  commence  practice.  He  hired  a 
room,  and  put  up  his  sign,  which  was  very  neatly 
printed  in  gold  letters.  In  looking  round  for  a  board 
ing-house,  he  was  introduced  to  Mr.  Howell,  who  took 
him  into  his  family.  It  was  said  that  the  landlord's 
head  was  more  erect  than  ever;  he  was  honored  by 
having  a  lawyer  board  at  his  house,  and  he  mentioned 
the  circumstance  so  often,  that  the  whole  village  was 
made  acquainted  with  the  fact  in  less  than  a  week. 

Mr.  Edwards,  the  lawyer,  had  not  been  in  Mr.  How- 
ell's  house  more  than  two  days,  before  he  was  quite  in 
timate  with  Jane,  and  when  Henry  called  he  was 
treated  with  not  a  little  coolness. 

"  Father,"  said  Jane  one  day  in  private,  "  what  must 
I  do  ?  I  am  engaged  to  Heywood,  and  have  no  affec 
tion  for  him,  and  Mr.  Edwards,  whom  no  one  could 
help  loving,  has  offered  me  his  hand.  What  shall  I 
do?" 

"  By  all  means,  tell  Henry  your  feelings  towards  him, 
and  as  he  is  a  reasonable  fellow,  he  will  not  censure 
you.  Of  course,  you  need  not  mention  the  honor  you 
have  received  from  our  distinguished  boarder,  the 
lawyer." 


212  THE  IMPBUDENT   STEP.  • 

After  thinking  over  the  matter,  and  conversing  with 
Edwards,  they  concluded  to  drop  a  line  to  HJ3nry.  It 
was  written  by  the  lawyer  and  copied  by  Jane,  and  sent 
forthwith. 

Poor  Heywood  was  thunderstruck.  Though  not  ac 
customed  to  use  harsh  words,  he  could  not  refrain,  de 
claring  first  that  he  would  sue  the  girl  for  a  breach  of 
promise.  But  when  cooled  down  a  little,  he  declared 
she  was  not  worthy  of  his  attention,  that  he  did  not 
care  a  fig  for  her,  and  would  return  to  his  old  friend, 
Louisa,  not  doubting  that  she  would  gladly  accept  of 
him ;  for  notwithstanding  his  strange  conduct  he  had 
really  loved  her. 

The  young  men  of  the  neighborhood  laughed  heart 
ily  at  the  affair,  and  said  it  was  just  right,  as  he  had 
long  before  been  so  unkind  to  Miss  Mentor,  one  of  the* 
best  girls  that  lived  in  the  village.  No  one  sympa 
thized  with  him,  except  his  own  relations,  and  even 
they  declared  it  was  a  just  punishment. 

Few  thought  much  of  the  lawyer.  He  was  genteel, 
dressed  well,  talked  loud,  and  knew  a  little  more  than 
every  thing.  He  was  married  to  Jane  in  the  course  of 
a  few  months  after  his  arrival  in  the  village.  Having 
no  property,  and  business  being  dull,  he  was  obliged  to 
sponge  his  living  out  of  the  old  gentleman.  Ho  well 
was  tired  to  death  with  supporting  him,  and  he  finally 
removed  to  another  place  with  his  wife.  They  did  not 
live  very  happily  together,  as  the  dispositions  of  each 
were  any  thing  but  agreeable.  The  last  heard  from 
him  was  that  he  just  made  enough  by  his  profession  to 
keep  his  family  from  starving,  and  was  disliked  by  ev 
erybody  on  account  of  his  niggardly  behavior. 

Full  of  hope,  Heywood  went  to  the  house  of  Mrs. 


.  THE   IMPEUDENT  STEP.  213 

Mentor,  and  was  cordially  received  by  Louisa.  She 
was  a  young  woman  who  never  retaliated,  and  you  could 
not  tell  by  her  conduct  that  she  had -ever  been  wronged 
by  another.  After  conversing  on  Various  topics  for 
nearly  an  hour,  Henry  introduced  the  one  that  lay  near 
his  heart. 

"  I  have  thought  a  great  deal  of  late,"  said  he,  "  of 
the  course  I  pursued  towards  you  last  summer.  That 
I  did  wrong,  —  was  altogether  too  hasty, — I  am  free  to 
confess." 

"I  always  thought  you  were  too  hasty  in  the  step 
you  took,  for  my  poor  father  was  so  unwell  that  I  could 
not  have  a  heart  to  leave  him." 

"  Although  we  have  hardly  seen  each  other  for  many 
months  past,  for  one  I  should  be  pleased  to  have  that 
friendship  renewed." 

"  I  have  never  been  otherwise  than  friendly  to  you ; 
if  you  thought  otherwise  you  have  been  mistaken." 

"  But  I  should  be  pleased  to  be  on  the  same  terms  of 
intimacy." 

"  Henry,  there  is  a  serious  objection  to  that ;  I  am 
now  engaged  to  another." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  " 

"  It  is  so,  and  I  expect  shortly  to  be  married  to  one 
who  I  have  reason  to  believe  loves  me — who  will  never 
forsake  me ;  who  will  never  prove  treacherous." 

Henry's  heart  was  too  full  for  utterance.  He  left 
the  house  after  being  kindly  invited  to  call  again  by 
Louisa  and  her  mother,  who,  if  they  remembered  the 
past,  did  not  have  any  feelings  of  unkindness  towards 
Heywood,  nor  did  they  wish  to  reproach  him. 

During  the  year  there  was  a  wedding  at  Mrs.  Men 
tor's.  Louisa,  the  sweet-tempered,  the  amiable  and 


214  THE  IMPKUDENT  STEP.  • 

lovely  girl,  -was  united  to  James  Eldwell,  the  village 
pastor,  a  young  man  of  fine  talents  and  consistent  pi 
ety,  A  better  match  was  seldom  formed.  Poor  Hey- 
wood  was  invited  to  the  wedding,  but  he  could  not  go. 
His  imprudent  step  had  sealed  his  fate  and  made  him 
miserable. 

From  the  day  that  Louisa  was  married,  Henry  was 
an  altered  man.  He  was  seldom  seen  in  company,  and 
always  preferred  to  be  alone.  It  was  his  practice  to 
walk  in  retired  places,  where  the  voices  and  the  foot 
steps  of  men  were  seldom  heard.  He  had  few  associ 
ates,  and  said  but  little.  Apparently  worn  down  by  sor 
row,  he  lived  but  a  few  years,  and  found  that  repose  in 
the  grave,  which  had  been  denied  him  on  earth. 


A  MAN  AGAIN. 


No  more  will  sorrow  dim  thine  eye, 

Or  grief  thy  heart  oppress, 
And  bright  as  once  shall  be  our  sky, 

And  every  thing  shall  bless. 
Forget  the  past  —  thy  tears  refrain  — 

Come  to  this  sheltering  breast ; 
For  know,  I  am  a  man  again, 

And  still  shall  make  thee  blest. 

IT  was  a  beautiful  evening  in  May.  Couple  after 
couple  were  seen  wending  their  way  to  the  mansion  of 
Capt.  Mould.  His  daughter  Ellen  was  to  be  united  to 
the  accomplished  Edward  Simonton.  Miss  Mould  was 
young,  pretty,  and  prepossessing  in  her  manners.  She 
had  been  blest  with  parents  who  had  taken  particular 
pains  with  her  education.  Though  not  wealthy,  Capt. 
Mould  was  in  good  circumstances,  and  had  ever  been  in 
dulgent  to  his  daughter.  Young  Simonton  was  the  son 
of  a  merchant,  who  had  amassed  considerable  property 
by  strict  attention  to  his  business  and  frugality  in  his 
habits.  He  brought  up  his  son  in  his  own  counting-room, 
where  he  did  pretty  much  as  he  had  an  inclination ;  his 
father  not  often  checking  him  in  any  irregular  course. 
Edward  possessed  a  good  disposition,  but  would  doubt 
less  be  easily  led  away  by  a  companion,  although  he ' 
was  never  known  to  be  guilty  of  any  particular  vice. 
His  father  was  exceedingly  liberal  to  his  son ;  permitting 


216  A  MAN  AGAIN. 

him  to  take  money  whenever  he  was  disposed,  presum 
ing  that  he  was  careful  to  expend  nothing  for  useless 
or  vicious  purposes.  A  short  time  previous  to  his  mar 
riage,'  the  merchant  took  his  son  into  partnership,  to 
share  with  him  equally  the  profits  of  the  business. 

With  bright  prospects  before  the  young  couple,  it 
seemed  impossible  for  them  to  be  otherwise  than  happy 
— that  a  single  cloud  should  linger  in  their  bright  sky, 
or  that  a  single  thorn  should  spring  up  in  their  pleasant 
pathway.  But  there  are  many  reverses  in  l;fe.  The 
poor  and  forsaken  to-day,  may  be  the  rich  and  happy 
to-morrow.  Those  who  can  nowhere  find  a  friend  to 
whom  they  can  unbosom  their  sorrows,  may  in  a  few 
days  be  surrounded  by  sympathizers  and  friends.  We 
cannot  tell  what  the  future  may  unfold.  They  only 
who  are  prepared  for  joy  or  grief,  for  poverty  or  riches, 
really  know  how  to  live  and  enjoy  the  blessings  of  life. 
A  few  years  passed  by,  and  Edward  prospered  in  busi 
ness  with  his  father.  They  not  only  made  an  excellent 
living,  but  they  were  daily  adding  to  their  property. 
In  the  midst  of  their  prosperity,  Mr.  Simonton  thought 
he  noticed  a  careless,  indifferent  spirit  in  his  son ;  he  was 
absent  frequently  from  the  shop,  and  appeared  -to  neg 
lect  his  business.  One  day,  when  they  were  alone  in 
the  shop,  Mr.  Simonton  spoke  to  his  son  respecting  his 
seeming  .indifference  to  the  concerns  in  the  store,  and 
made  the  inquiry  of  him,  why  it  was  so. 

"  I  was  not  aware,"  said  Edward,  "  that  I  had  been 
careless  or  neglectful." 

"  You  may  depend  upon  it,  it  is  so ;  and  others  have 
noticed  it  beside  myself.  Where  are  you  generally 
when  absent  from  the  store  ?  " 

"  I  often  associate  with  a  few  friends,  and  go  to  the 


A   MAN   AGAIN.  217 

island  on  a  sailing  excursion,  or  take  a  chaise  and 
ride." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  some  of  those  young  men  do  not 
sustain  the  characters  they  should.  Are  they  not  wild 
and  headstrong  and  bent  upon  vicious  pursuits  ? " 

"  Oh,  no,  father ;  they  are  as  respectable  and  as  virtu 
ous  young  men  as  can  be  found  in  the  city.  Do  you 
think  I  would  associate  with  any  but  such  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  sure  I  should  not ;  but  when  young  men 
are  wild  and  careless  and  pursue  courses  without 
looking  to  the  consequences,  they  are  very  apt  to  form 
bad  habits,  and  if  not  utterly  ruined,  become  unfitted 
for  their  business.  And  yet  they  do  not  perceive  the 
stain  which  is  gradually  imprinted  upon  their  characters. 
How  true,  Edward,  is  that  familiar  passage :  — 

"  '  Vice  is  a  monster  of  so  frightful  mien, 
As  to  be  hated,  needs  but  to  be  seen ; 
Yet  seen  too  oft,  familiar  with  her  face, 
We  first  endure,  then  pity,  then  embrace.' 

It  is  only  for  your  good  that  I  speak  thus  plainly 
to  you." 

"  As  I  said  before,  father,  I  am  not  aware  that  I  have 
done  wrong,  that  I  have  neglected  my  business ;  but  if 
you  think  so,  I  will  endeavor  in  future  to  conduct  dif 
ferently." 

For  a  few  months  after  this  conversation,  Edward  was 
very  attentive  to  his  business,  but  he  began  gradually 
to  slacken  away,  until  his  father  found  it  necessary  to 
check  him  again ;  but  it  had  not  the  desired  effect. 
His  wife,  too,  had  noticed  the  difference  in  her  hus 
band.  He  was  less  attentive  to  her,  and  appeared  to 
take  less  interest  in  his  domestic  affairs.  He  would  of- 
19 


218  A  MAN  AGAIN. 

ten  keep  late  hours,  not  returning  to  his  wife  until 
near  midnight.  She,  with  a  woman's  love  and  solici 
tude,  often  inquired  where  he  had  been,  but  he  merely 
replied,  "  In  the  company  of  a  few  friends."  But  not 
feeling  satisfied  with  his  answer,  she  was  still  unhappy 
and  expressed  the  wish  that  he  would  return  home  in 
better  season. 

Thus  young  Simonton  continued  for  nearly  a  year, 
when  his  father  learned  that  he  was  in  the  constant 
practice  of  visiting  the  gaming-room,  where  he  had  met 
with  frequent  and  heavy  losses,  and  that  he  still  con 
tinued  the  practice.  Finding  that  what  he  now  said  to 
his  son  was  of  no  avail,  and  that  he  persisted  in  the 
sin,  he  told  him  frankly  that  their  copartnership  must 
be  dissolved  for  the  present.  But  Edward  appeared 
perfectly  indifferent ;  he  had  been  so  long  accustomed 
to  the  vice  of  gambling,  that  he  preferred  to  be  thrown 
out  of  business  rather  than  relinquish  his  growing  pas 
sion. 

In  settling  up  the  accounts  of  the  firm,  Mr.  Simon- 
ton  found  that  by  his  son's  irregularities  and  the  debts 
he  had  contracted,  they  had  met  with  a  loss  of  several 
thousand  dollars.  When  his  father  related  the  circum 
stance,  Edward  said  not  a  word.  He  knew  that  he  had 
wronged  his  parent  and  himself,  that 'he  had  neglected 
his  family,  and  brought  disgrace  upon  his  friends.  As 
a  natural  consequence  of  the  course  he  had  taken,  he 
resorted  to  the  fatal  bowl  to  drown  his  feelings,  and  it 
was  not  unfrequently  that  he  was  seen  intoxicated.  To 
save  him  from  ruin,  his  father  made  him  excellent  of 
fers.  If  he  would  forsake  the  gaming-table  and  touch 
no  spirit,  the  past  should  be  forgotten  with  all  his 
losses,  and  he  should  still  share  one-half  the  profits  of 


A  MAN  AGAIN.  219 

the  concern.  His  wife  also  pleaded  eloquently  with  her 
husband,  and  with  tears  entreated  him  to  forsake  his 
injurious  habits,  that  he  might  be  again  respected  and 
happy. 

"  Just  think  how  much  we  once  enjoyed,"  said  she. 
"  We  had  every  thing  the  heart  could  desire.  Every 
day's  sun  renewed  our  joys.  Oh,  how  happy  we  were  ! 
Now,  Edward,  we  can  again  enjoy  life ;  pleasant  will  be 
our  path,  and  bright  and  cheering  our  prospects,  if  you 
will  only  refuse  to  associate  with  those  wretches  —  I  can 
call  them  by  no  milder  name  —  who  have  plotted  your 
ruin,  taken  your  property,  and  brought  sorrow  into  our 
family.  You  cannot  realize  your  altered  appearance, 
since  you  have  become  addicted  to  the  vile  habits  of 
drinking  and  gambling.  How  often  have  I  of  late 
thought  of  those  lines  of  the  poet :  — 

"  *'  A  night  of  fretful  passion  may  consume 
All  that  thou  hast  of  beauty's  gentle  bloom, 
And  one  distempered  hour  of  sordid  fear 
Print  on  thy  brow  the  wrinkles  of  a  year.' 

Every  time  I  reflect  upon  your  appearance,  and  know 
what  you  once  was,  I  feel  more  than  I  can  express. 
Now  do,  Edward,  hearken  to  me,  and  not  associate  with 
the  gambler.  Depend  upon  it,  we  shall  be  happy  if 
you  only  pursue  a  right  course." 

"  I  know,  Ellen,  that  I  have  done  wrong,  I  am  fully 
sensible  of  it,  and  will  try  to  keep  away  from  those  fel 
lows  who  have  professed  to  be  my  friends." 

But  habit  is  strong.  When  once  accustomed  to  walk 
in  the  downward  path,  it  requires  great  effort  to  retrace 
the  steps  and  return  to  the  true  path.  Habit  — 


220  A  MAN  AGAIN. 

"  Docs  often  reason  overrule, 
And  only  serves  for  reason  to  the  fool." 

If  Edward  did  try  to  forsake  his  pernicious  practices, 
his  efforts  were  of  no  avail ;  he  continued  to  associate 
with  the  unprincipled  and  became  quite  intemperate  in 
his  habits.  His  poor  wife  suffered  in  her  feelings  more 
than  can  be  described ;  for  she  really  loved  her  husband 
and  did  all  in  her  power  to  promote  his  happiness. 
The  father  of  Ellen  endeavored  to  persuade  her  to 
leave  one  who  had  become  so  lost  to  shame  and  self- 
respect  and  so  abusive  to  her ;  but  she  would  not  hear 
to  them.  "  Perhaps  he  will  do  better,"  would  be  the 
reply  to  her  parent. 

Having  pursued  so  degraded  a  course  for  so  long,  and 
having  received  a  large  amount  of  money  from  his 
father,  at  different  periods,  which  he  had  wasted,  Ed 
ward  had  become  entirely  penniless.  His  father  would 
allow  him  no  more. 

"  What  I  give  in  future  shall  be  to  your  wife,"  said 
he.  "  Not  another  cent  of  my  property  shall  you  re 
ceive  until  you  have  altered  your  course." 

This  had  no  better  effect  upon  Edward.  Among 
those  who  had  used  their  influence  to  lead  him  astray, 
he  found  some  who  would  not  hesitate  to  treat  him  to 
spirit,  and  he  might  be  seen  daily  going  home  in  a  state 
of  intoxication. 

As  the  best  course  to  be  pursued,  his  father  had  him 
placed  in  the  house  of  correction,  he  being  complained 
of  as  a  common  drunkard.  After  remaining  in  this 
place  for  a  few  days,  the  young  man  began  to  realize  his 
situation.  He  had  lost  his  character,  injured  his  father 
and  almost  broken  the  heart  of  his  wife.  No  one  re 
spected  him  now;  he  was  degraded.  Those  who  in 


A   MAN   AGAIN.  221 

years  passed  had  professed  so  strong  a  friendship  for 
him,  forsook  him  when  his  money  was  gone.  Not  one 
of  his  associates  had  called  to  see  him.  But  his  wife, 
she  who  had  suffered  and  borne  with  him,  was  the  only 
friend  he  found  in  his  loneliness.  Not  a  day  passed 
that  she  did  not  call  upon  him,  and  bring  some  dainty 
which  she  had  made  especially  for  him.  While  in  the 
house  of  correction,  Edward  promised  his  wife  faithfully 
that  he  would  pursue  a  different  course  as  soon  as  he 
was  permitted  to  have  his  liberty. 

"  If  I  will  exert  myself,"  said  she,  "  to  have  you  liber 
ated  will  you  promise  to  associate  no  more  with  gam 
blers  ? " 

"I  am  determined  to  forsake  them  altogether.  I 
will  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  them." 

"  Will  you  drink  any  more  ?  " 

"  No,  never  will  I  touch  a  single  drop  if  I  can  possi 
bly  avoid  it." 

"  There  is  one  safe  course  and  only  one,  to  sign  the 
pledge,  and  be  firm  in  your  resolution.  Will  you  do 
this?" 

"  You  know,  Ellen,  I  have  always  said  I  would  not 
sign  the  pledge.  You  would  not  have  me  tell  a  lie  ?  " 

"  No,  Edward,  I  would  not  have  you  tell  an  untruth ; 
but  if  you  have  said  you  would  not  do  a  right  act, 
there  is  more  sin  in  keeping  the  resolution  than  in 
breaking  it  at  once." 

"  But  I  cannot  sign  the  pledge." 

"  Then  I  certainly  cannot  exert  myself  to  have  you 
released.  It  is  only  on  condition  that  you  will  sign  the 
pledge,  that  I  will  do  any  thing  towards  your  liberation. 
This  is  my  only  hope." 

"  Well,  I  don't  care  then.  I  wont  sign  the  pledge," 
19* 


222  A   MAN  AGAIN. 

he  said,  with  a  little  anger,  and  turned  away  from  his 
wife. 

Ellen  left  her  husband,  exceedingly  sorry  that  he 
would  not  come  to  the  good  resolution.  She  knew  that 
unless  he  signed  the  pledge,  he  would  not  resist  the 
temptation,  and  it  would  be  better  for  him  and  for  her 
that  he  should  remain  in  his  present  situation.  She 
was  determined  to  do  nothing  towards  having  him  re 
leased  from  the  house  of  correction  unless  she  had 
real  evidence  of  his  reformation.  It  was  out  of  pure 
love  to  him  that  she  pursued  this  course. 

For  two  or  three  days  Ellen  did  not  see  her  husband, 
when  one  morning  the  keeper  of  the  house  called  upon 
her  and  told  her  that  her  husband  was  quite  anxious 
for  her  to  come  and  see  him. 

"  Tell  him  I  will  come  to-morrow,"  eaid  ehe. 

The  next  day  she  procured  a  Washingtonian  pledge, 
and  called  upon  her  husband.  He  appeared  glad  to  see 
her  again. 

"  I  have  concluded  to  sign  the  pledge,"  said  he,  "  and 
not  only  to  sign  it  but  to  keep  it." 

"  It  is  the  only  safe  course,  Edward." 

"  So  I  now  believe." 

"  I  have  brought  the  pledge  with  me,  and  will  read 
what  you  are  to  subscribe  to,  that  you  may  not  put 
your  name  to  that  which  you  do  not  perfectly  under 
stand." 

After  reading  the  pledge,  Edward  took  the  pen  and 
signed  it. 

"  There !  "  he  exclaimed,  throwing  down  the  pen,  "  I 
am  a  man  again !  I  feel  new  life  in  all  my  limbs.  I 
bless  God  for  what  he  has  given  me  a  disposition  to  do," 
and  the  poor  fellow  wept  like  a  child.  "  0  Ellen,  for- 


A  MAN   AGAIN.  223 

give  me,  for  all  the  injury  I  have  done  you  —  for  all  the 
suffering  and  sorrow  I  have  brought  upon  you.  Never, 
never  again  will  you  have  occasion  to  grieve  over  my 
departure  from  the  path  of  virtue.  Never  will  I  refuse 
to  listen  to  your  counsels,  and  to  take  heed  to  your  ad 
vice." 

"  With  all  my  heart  I  forgive  you.  This  hour  of 
joy  more  than  repays  me  for  all  my  sufferings." 

Together  they  left  the  house  and  returned  to  their 
home,  which  had  been  so  long  the  habitation  of  sorrow. 

Edward  went  immediately  to  his  father,  told  him 
what  had  taken  place,  and  .begged  forgiveness  for  his 
undutiful  course. 

His  father  fell  upon  his  neck  and  embraced  him. 
Tears  came  freely  to  his  eyes,  as  he  said,  "  My  son  that 
was  lost  is  found  again." 

His  mother,  poor  woman,  was  so  overcome  that  she 
could  not  for  a  long  time  give  utterance  to  her  joy. 

If  happiness  was  ever  felt  on  earth,  it  was  in  the 
dwelling  of  Mr.  Simonton,  on  this  occasion  of  the  ref 
ormation  of  his  erring  son. 

A  few  months  elapsed  and  Edward  continued  firm  in 
his  resolution,  and  became  one  of  the  most  active  mem 
bers  of  the  temperance  society.  In  relating  his  expe 
rience,  he  has  often  brought  tears  to  the  eyes  of  many. 
"  I  would  advise  all  to  sign  the  pledge,"  he  recently 
said  in  a  public  assembly ;  "  it  was  the  means  of  my  ref 
ormation.  Had  I  adhered  to  the  resolution  formed 
while  associating  with  the  intemperate,  never  to  put  my 
name  to  the  pledge,  I  had  still  been  an  irreclaimable 
drunkard.  The  pledge  alone  has  saved  me.  I  can 
never  be  too  thankful  to  Heaven  that  I  was  blest  with 
those  friends,  who  never  forsook  me  in  my  lost  condi- 


224  A  MAN  AGAIN. 

tion,  but  labored  with  me  till  I  was  induced  to  become 
a  man  again.  For  I  am  a  man  now,  who  but  recently 
was  a  brute  —  a  brute  in  actions,  pursuing  a  brutish 
course,  and  being  brutal  to  all  my  real  friends." 

Edward  and  his  father  are  now  in  business  together, 
and  by  appearances  are  doing  .exceedingly  well.  The 
former  course  of  young  Simonton  will  be  but  an  incen 
tive  to  his  usefulness.  With  the  industrious  habits, 
benevolent  feeling  and  desire  to  do  good  and  be  useful 
to  others,  that  now  characterize  him,  the  prospect  is 
that  he  will  be  eminently  useful  in  the  world,  and  exert 
a  wide  influence  in  behalf  of  temperance  and  virtue. 


THE  ORPHAN. 


There's  not  a  heart,  however  drear, 
The  hand  of  friendship  may  not  bless ; 

No  breast,  if  touched  by  Mercy's  tear, 
That  will  not  move  in  thankfulness. 

JAMES  STANFORD  was  an  orphan.  His  first  recollec 
tion  was  when  running  about  in  the  almshouse  at  the 
age  of  three  or  four  years.  He  had  been  told  his  par 
ents  died  when  he  was  an  infant,  and  that  he  was 
placed  in  the  hands  of  the  overseers  of  the  poor. 
James  received  but  few  tokens  of  kindness ;  most  of 
the  inmates  being  cross  and  snappish  to  him.  If  any 
thing  went  wrong  with  the  miserable  inmates,  and  he 
was  near,  he  was  always  sure  to  receive  a  kick  or  a 
cuff.  As  he  grew  older,  he  was  obliged  to  work  about 
the  establishment,  under  the  direction  of  the  overseer, 
Mr.  Langdon,  a  complete  tyrant.  When  the  child  was 
too  weak  to  lift,  or  too  unwell  to  work,  this  man  would 
growl  at  him,  and  call  him  a  lazy  wretch,  "  a  young 
viper,"  a  "  good-for-nothing  puppy,"  and  the  like,  and 
not  unfrequently  box  his  ears,  or  throw  a  cowhide  about 
his  legs.  The  child  feared  this  wretch  as  he  would  an 
unchained  tiger,  and  trembled  like  a  leaf  when  he  saw 
him  approach.  One  time  the  little  fellow  accidentally 
broke  a  bowl,  in  which  he  was  eating  his  supper,  which 
circumstance  soon  came  to  the  ears  of  the  overseer. 


226  THE  ORPHAN. 

James  was  ordered  into  his  presence.  He  came  pale  as 
death  and  weeping  most  bitterly.  "  You  little  good-for- 
nothing  wretch  you,  what  did  you  break  that  bowl 
for  ?  "  said  Langdon ;  "  it  had  better  been  your  neck." 

"I  didn't  go  to,  and  I  will  never  do  so  again.  I 
never  will,  sir." 

"  Not  a  word,  you  dog  you.  I'll  teach  you  better 
than  to  break  up  all  the  crockery  in  the  house.  Off 
with  your  jacket  instantly,  or  I'll  skin  you  alive.  Be 
quick." 

The  poor  child  more  dead  than  alive  with  fear,  at 
tempted  to  pull  off  his  torn  and  dirty  jacket,  when  the 
overseer  grasped  his  arm  and  tore  it  off. 

"  I'll  never  do  so  again." 

"  Hold  your  tongue ;  I'll  teach  you  to  break  another 
bowl,  that  I  will." 

With  these  words,  he  laid  the  cowhide  over  the 
child's  back,  while  the  little  fellow  begged  earnestly  and 
affectingly  for  mercy.  "  You'll  kill  me  —  I  shall  die  — 
Oh,  do  have  mercy."  But  the  wretch  continued,  till 
there  was  scarcely  a  place  on  his  back  that  had  not  been 
lacerated,  while  the  blood  ran  down  to  his  feet.  When 
Langdon  had  ceased  whipping,  the  child  was  senseless. 
He  knew  nothing  until  the  next  morning  when  he 
awoke  in  intense  pain  and  so  stiff  that  he  could  hardly 
crawl  out  of  the  bed  when  he  was  called. 

When  Langdon  saw  him,  he  exclaimed,  "I  have 
a  good  mind  to  whip  you  again,  you  dog,  this  morning ! 
I'm  altogether  too  easy  with  you  young  scamps.  But 
I'll  try  you  again." 

About  once  a  week  the  overseers  of  the  poor  visited 
the  workhouse  to  see  if  every  thing  went  on  regularly, 
and  to  supply  the  food  and  clothing  that  were  needed, 


THE  OEPHAN.  227 

Before  these  men,  Mr.  Langdon  was  as  mild  and  ami 
able  as  a  saint.  He  would  show  them  about  the  differ 
ent  apartments,  that  they  might  see  the  regularity  and 
order  of  the  house.  As  one  of  these  gentlemen  noticed 
the  deathlike  appearance  of  James,  soon  after  he  had 
been  unmercifully  flogged,  he  remarked  —  "You  ap 
pear  to  be  sick,  my  little  fellow." 

"  Sick !  "  said  Langdon,  "  I  guess  you  wouldn't 
think  so,  if  you  knew  how  much  he  eats.  Jim  is  a 
roguish  boy,  too,  and  very  saucy  sometimes." 

"  You  feel  happy,  do  you  not,  my  lad  ?  "  said  the 
gentleman. 

"  Why  don't  you  speak  up  and  say  Yes,  sir,  to  the 
gentleman  and  not  be  sulky  ?  Tell  him  you  are  per 
fectly  happy,"  and  then  turning  to  the  man,  he  said, 
"  That  boy  appears  really  to  enjoy  himself  among  us. 
We  have  to  humor  him  a  good  deal,  arid  you  know  it 
is  best  to  do  so  with  small  children.  Poor  child !  he 
has  no  father  or  mother  to  look  after  him,  and  I 
pity  the  boy,"  and  the  tears  ran  down  the  cheeks  of 
Langdon. 

"  'That  is  right,  my  friend.  While  you  thus  feel  and 
act  towards  those  whom  heaven  has  afflicted,  you  will 
not  lose  your  reward."  And  then  placing  his  hand  on 
the  head  of  the  lad,  he  said  —  "Always  be  obedient  to 
your  kind  and  indulgent  master,  and  he  will  treat  you 
the  same  in  future." 

James  trembled  when  he  thought  that  he  should  re 
ceive  the  same  treatment,  and  could  hardly  stand, 
which  the  gentleman  observed,  when  Langdon  re 
marked  — 

"  The  poor  child  is  unwell ;  he  has  been  ill  for  two 
or  three  days  past.  I  shall  give  him  some  castor  oil 
to-night." 


228  THE  ORPHAN. 

After  the  overseers  had  left,  Langdon  had  James 
brought  to  him. 

"  "Why  didn't  you  speak  up,  and  tell  the  gentleman, 
when  he  asked  you  if  you  was  contented  and  happy  ? 
I'll  teach  you  better  manners,"  grasping  him  by  the 
arm  and  severely  shaking  him  —  "a  little  more,  and 
you  would  have  got  me  into  difficulty,  you  dog  you. 
What  did  you  mean  by  not  talking  up,  hey  ?  "  shaking 
the  trembling  child  again  —  "Why  don't  you  tell  me? 
I'll  shake  you  to  pieces,  if  I  am  to  have  this  trouble 
with  you." 

Giving  him  one  or  two  cuffs,  he  sent  James  to  bring 
in  some  wood,  telling  him  to  be  careful  and  not  pre 
tend  to  be  sick,  or  he  would  be  under  the  necessity  of 
using  the  cowhide  again. 

It  was  some  weeks  before  James  recovered  from  the 
effects  of  the  whipping  given  him  for  the  crime  of  ac 
cidentally  breaking  the  bowl.  In  the  mean  time,  he 
had  received  several  kicks  and  thumps  from  his  mas 
ter,  and  also  from  some  of  the  inmates  of  the  house, 
who,  from  their  bad  characters,  had  won  the  good-will 
of  the  tyrant.  It  was  not  half  the  time  that  the  boy 
had  enough  to  eat,  yet  he  dared  not  complain.  One  day 
he  requested  a  little  milk  in  his  molasses  and  water, 
which  coming  to  the  ears  of  Langdon,  he  declared  that, 
for  his  impudence,  the  boy  should  go  without  sweet 
ening  for  two  months  to  come,  and  so  the  child  drank 
nothing  but  water.  But  just  so  much  bread  and  gruel 
was  allowed  him  daily.  If  he  asked  for  another  mouth 
ful,  his  next  meal  would  invariably  be  taken  from  him. 
James  was  not  the  only  child  treated  in  this  way. 
There  were  several,  besides  the  aged  and  infirm,  who 
suffered  for  the  necessaries  of  life,  and  yet  they  dare 


THE   OBPHAN.  229 

not  complain,  lest  they  should  be  more  unkindly  treated. 
There  was  one  poor  afflicted  man  who  was  deficient 
in  sound  common  sense,  and  the  treatjnent  he  re 
ceived  was  barbarous.  He  was  ordered  out  in  the 
cold  and  wet,  and  compelled  to  labor  when  he  should 
have  been  on  his  bed.  One  time  as  he  was  stooping 
down,  throwing  some  bricks  into  a  cart,  he  was  spoken 
to  by  Langdon,  but  being  a  little  hard  of  hearing,  did 
not  notice  it ;  whereupon  the  wretch  ran  up  behind  him 
and  gave  him  a  severe  kick  in  the  groin.  The  poor 
man  fell  to  the  earth  in  extreme  agony,  and  was 
obliged  to  be  carried  to  the  house  and  placed  on  a  bed. 
From  this  kick  he  never  recovered,  but  languished,  at 
times,  in  excruciating  pains,  for  a  year  or  two,  and 
finally  died  of  his  wound. 

Time  passed  on,  but 'it  brought  no  blessings  to  the 
orphan  boy.  His  life  had  been  the  scene  of  pain  and 
sorrow  from  the  dawn  of  existence.  As  he  grew  older 
he  saw  the  injustice  of  his  master  more  and  more,  but 
he  could  not  speak  out  his  mind.  He  was  tempted 
time  and  again  to  mention  his  case  to  the  overseers,  on 
the  day  of  their  weekly  visit,  but  he  could  find  no  op 
portunity  ;  Langdon  being  always  present  and  compel- 
ing  him  to  lie  to  their  faces. 

James  was  now  twelve  or  thirteen  years  of  age,  and 
while  at  work  chopping  wood  one  morning,  a  chip  flew 
up  and  broke  a  pane  of  glass.  What  to  do,  the  fright 
ened  lad  could  not  tell.  He  knew  he  should  be  se 
verely  punished  for  the  accident;  but  he  had  hardly 
begun  to  reflect  on  his  situation  before  he  was. called 
before  Langdon.  "  You're  a  pretty  boy,  aint  you  ?  " 
said  the  stern,  old  reprobate ;  "  you've  broken  a  window, 
you  dog  you  ?  " 
20 

9 


230  THE   ORPHAN. 

"  Sir,  it  was  accidental." 

"  Hold  your  villanous,  lying  tongue ;  you 'know  you 
lie.  Do  you.  think  I'm  fool  enough  to  believe  you  ?  It 
is  pretty  well  too,- to  imagine  that  a  lie  will  screen  you 
from  a  just  punishment.  Off  with  your  jacket  —  off 
with  it,  or  I'll  tear  you  limb  from  limb." 

"Osir,  I  —  " 

"Hold  your  tongue.  Open  your  mouth  again,  and 
I'll  tie  you  up  naked  by  your  thumbs,  and  whip  you 
till  you  have  learnt  better  manners.  Come,  off  with 
your  jacket.  I  sha'n't  wait  many  moments  for  your  mo 
tions,  that  I'll  have  you  know." 

"Sir,  I—" 

"  Dare  you  speak  again J  I'll  learn  you  who  is  your 
master,"  and  with  these  words,  he  flew  at  the  boy, 
tore  off  his  jacket,  and  stripped  him  completely,  contin 
ually  muttering,  "  You  villain,  you  dog,  you  rogue,  I'll 
learn  you  something."  He  then  tied  his  hands,  and 
drew  them  up  to  a  spike  in  the  wall,  and  made  the  rope 
fast,  while  his  toes  just  touched  the  floor,  the  poor  boy 
begging  for  mercy  all  the  time.  He  now  took  his  cow 
hide,  and  commenced  whipping.  Nearly 'every  blow 
brought  blood  from  his  back.  The  child  cried  and 
plead,  till  nature  was  nearly  exhausted  but  he  plead  in 
vain.  It  was  more  than  an  hour  after  that  reason  re 
turned  to  him,  and  then  he  was  lying  upon  -some  straw. 
But  he  could  scarcely  move  a  limb.  It  was  several  days 
before  he  could  walk,  and  for  weeks  he  was  unable  to 
work. 

When  the  overseers  of  the  poor  should  call  at  the 
workhouse  again,  James  determined  to  show  them  his 
back  and  tell  them  of  the  treatment  he  had  received ; 
for  he  could  not  believe,  if  they  knew  his  sufferings, 


THE  OEPHAN.  231 

they  would  justify  the  tyrannical  man.  It  was  not  long 
before  Langdon  and  one  of  the  overseers  were  standing 
before  him. 

"  James,  my  lad,  how  do  you  feel  to-day  ? "  said 
Langdon,  pretending  to  feel  compassionate  towards 
him. 

"  Feel,  sir,  how  should  I  feel  after  being  beaten 
almost  to  death  ?  " 

The  wretch  was  thunderstruck.  He  turned  all  man 
ner  of  colors  —  hemmed  and  stammered  —  "How  — 
what  do  you  mean  to  say  ?  " 

"Mean  to  say?  That  you  have  almost  killed  me. 
It  is  true,  God  knows." 

"  What  does  this  mean,  Mr.  Langdon  ?  "  inquired  the 
gentleman. 

"  It  is  ono  of  his  villanous  lies.  Miss  G — — ,"  said 
he,  calling  one  of  his  favorites  to  him,  but  who  was  as 

vile  a  woman  as  could  be  found,  —  "  Miss  G ,  that 

boy  accuses  me  of  beating  him.  Have  I  done  any  thing 
more  than  correct  him  mildly  for  his  faults  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Langdon,  you  never  have ;  and  I  can 
tell  this  gentleman  how  kind  you  have  always  been  to 
him  —  watched  over  him  as  a  father,  and  done  more, 
too." 

"  So  you  see,  sir,"  said  Langdon,  "  that  this  is  a 
trick  of  the  boy  to  injure  me  in  the  estimation  of  the 
overseers."  *••.•> 

"  But  I  can  show  my  b — " 

"  Hold  your  lying  tongue ! "  exclaimed  the  wretch, 
"  this  gentleman  shall  not  hear  you  lie  any  more.  You 
may  go  now  and  pick  the  rest  of  that  oakum." 

Young  Stanford  went  with  a  heavy  heart ;  he  dared 
not  do  otherwise ;  but  how  bitterly  did  he  regret  what 


232  THE  ORPHAN. 

he  had  said.  He  thought  of  the  punishment  he  should 
receive  that  night,  —  his  body  being  already  lacerated 
from  his  recent  flogging,  —  and  he  thought  of  an  es 
cape  from  the  house.  He  had  nothing  but  an  old  cap, 
besides  the  clothes  that  were  on  him.  But  while  think 
ing  of  escaping,  word  was  sent  him  to  go  to  his  master, 
and  be  punished  for  his  impudence.  Immediately,  James 
started  for  the  door  and  the  gate.  He  ran  as  fast  as 
his  sore  back  would  permit  him ;  but  he  had  not  ran  far 
in  the  wood,  when  looking  back,  he  saw  three  or  four 
men  after  him  at  full  speed,  and  among  the  rest  old 
Langdon  himself.  They  gained  rapidly  upon  him.  At 
this  moment,  a  wagon  with  a  gentleman  in  it  came  up. 

"  0  sir,  take  me  in  —  take  me  in,  I  pray  you,"  said 
James. 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Take  me  in  and  I  will  tell  you  all." 

"  But  who  are  those  men  behind  ?  " 

"For  God's  sake,  save  me  —  take  me  in  —  do,  sir, 
do!" 

"  Jump  in,  then." 

And  in  he  jumped,  and  off  they  rode  when  Langdon 
was  not  two  rods  from  the  wagon.  James  related  his 
sorrows  to  the  gentleman  who  took  him  in,  whose  name 
he  ascertained  to  be  Ingman.  He  appeared  to  feel  a 
deep  interest  in  the  lad,  ragged  and  dirty  and  miser 
able  as  he  was. 

"  I  live  about  seventy  miles  from  here  on  a  farm," 
said  the  gentleman,  "  and  if  you  will  go  with  me  and  be 
contented  to  work  with  me,  you  shall  be  welcome." 

James  thanked  him  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  for  such 
kindness  he  did  not  expect,  having  through  life  expe 
rienced  nothing  but  savage  looks,  hard  words,  and  se 
vere  beatings. 


THE  ORPHAN.  233 

Late  in  the  evening  Mr.  Ingman  put  up  at  a  private 
house,  and  the.  next  morning  started  on  his  journey, 
taking  James  with  him,  whom  he  found  to  possess  a 
good  mind,  but  without  culture.  They  conversed 
freely,  and  their  journey  soon  terminated ;  for  about 
sunset,  Mr.  Ingman  arrived  at  his  home.  When  he 
informed  his  family  what  he  knew  of  James,  they  ap 
peared  to 'feel  a  deep  interest  in  him,  more  especially 
when  they  saw  the  wounds  on  his  back.  Mrs.  Ingman 
dressed  them  as  well  as  she  could,  gave  him  clean  and 
tidy  clothes,  which  she  had  in  the  house,  while  the 
tears  of  gratitude  ran  down  the  cheeks  of  the  poor  boy. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  how  grateful  I  am  for  what  you 
have  done  for  me,"  said  he,  "  and  I  will  try  to  repay 
you  as  soon  as  I  am  able  to  work." 

With  a  good  suit  of  clothes  and  a0  clean  face,  and  re 
ceiving  kind  treatment,  James  improved  in  every  re 
spect.  Mr.  Ingman  sent  him  to  the  district  school, 
where  his  daughter,  Sarah,  attended,  and  purchased  him 
books  to  study.  Young  Stanford  did  all  in  his  power 
to  please  the  good  people  who  had  been  so  kind  to  him, 
and  each  felt  strongly  attached  to  the  other.  James 
was  industrious  and  labored  diligently  on  the  farm,  and 
also  improved  what  leisure  time  he  had  in  reading  and 
study. 

A  few  years  flew  rapidly  by,  and  James  had  grown 
up  to  manhood.  He  had  passed  very  happily  the  last 
years  of  his  life ;  but  he  could  never  look  back  upon 
his  childhood  without  feelings  of  horror  at  what  he  had 
passed  through,  nor  upon  old  Langdon,  but  with  deep 
indignation,  and  he  often  thought  he  should  like  to  see 
"that  man  punished  as  he  deserved.  Since  he  had  been 
with  Mr.  Ingman,  he  had  not  heard  from  him.  «,» 

20* 


234  THE  ORPHAN. 

Mr.  Ingman  and  his  wife  were  so  well  pleased  with 
Stanford,  that  they  readily  consented  to  the  request  of 
their  daughter,  that  he  should  become  their  son-in- 
law.  When  Sarah's  father  had  completed  a  small 
house  which  he  was  building  about  a  mile  above  his 
dwelling,  he  said  to  his  daughter  and  James,  "  I  make 
you  a  present  of  this  house  and  a  hundred  acres  of 
land..  Be  prudent  and  industrious  and  you  will-pros 
per."  The  young  couple  thanked  him  sincerely  for 
his  liberality  and  kindness  and  said  they  would  en 
deavor  to  profit  by  his  advice  and  the  example  he  had 
always  set  before  them. 

That  night  Sarah  Ingman  was  married  to  James 
Stanford,  and  removed  to  their  new  house,  as  happy  as 
fond  hearts  and  virtuous  characters  could  make  them. 

Young  Stanford  went  diligently  to  work  on  his  farm, 
dressing  and  improving  his  land,  so  that  it  yielded 
abundantly.  The  produce  he  raised,  he  was  obliged 
to  carry  fifty  or  sixty  miles  to  find  a  good  market. 

One  evening,  as  he  was  returning  to  his  village,  at  a 
late  hour,  he  was  overtaken  by  a  man  on  horseback 
who  appeared  -very  sociable.  James  thought  he  knew 
the  voice,  but  it  being  dark,  could  not  recognize  the 
person.  For  several  miles  they  conversed  on  various 
topics,  .till  they  approached  a  piece  of  thick  woods. 

"  Young  man,"  said  the  stranger,  "  I'm  a  robber,  and 
I  would  thank  you  for  the  money  you  received  to-day," 
at  the  same  time  drawing  a  large  horse  pistol  from  his 
saddle  and  cocking  it. 

Stanford  was  a  man  of  some  nerve  and  not  easily 
frightened. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  I  have  but  little  money  about  me, 
and  it  is  hardly  worth  taking." 


THE  ORPHAN.  235 

"  Out  with  what  you  have  instantly,"  said  the  rob 
ber,  pointing  the  pistol  towards  Stanford,  "  or  your  life 
is  not  worth  a  fig." 

James  immediately  took  out  his  purse  and  handed  it 
to  the  robber,  who  was  about  putting  it  in  his  pocket, 
•when  Stanford  grasped  his  pistol.  In  attempting 
to  wrest  it  from  the  hands  of  the  stranger  it  Was  dis 
charged,  the  ball  just  grazing  his  cheek.  In  an  in 
stant  the  robber  jumped  from  his  horse,  followed  by 
Stanford.  The  former  attempted  to  draw  a  knife  from 
his  pocket,  and  the  latter  clinched  him.  There  was  a 
severe  struggle.  At  one  moment  the  robber  had  the 
•advantage,  but  it  was  now  recovered  by  James,  who 
threw  him  down  and  held  him  firmly. 

"  Villain,"  said  the  farmer,  "it  is  in  my  'power  to 
take  your  life." 

"  Sir,  spare  me  and  let  me  go  and  I  will  reward  you. 
Five  hundred  dollars  that  are  in  my  saddle-bags  shall 
be  yours." 

"Do  you  think  I  am  a  knave  like  yourself?  Not 
ten  thousand  dollars  would  be  a  temptation  for  me. 
Vile  wretch  to  make  such  an  offer,  when  in  an  instant 
you  would  sacrifice  my  life.  No,  I  shall  hold  you  here 
until. some  one  passes,  if  it  be  till  to-morrow  noon." 

"  I  will  reform,  and  pay  you  well  for  letting  me  go. 
I  will  give  up  my  pistol,  my  knife  and  every  weapon  I 
have  about  me,  so  you  need  not  fear." 

"  I  have  no  fear,  this  is  not  your  first  attempt  to  rob, 
and  the  law  shall  take  its  course  with  you." 

For  an  hour  or  more  did  the  robber  beg  for  liberty, 
but  in  vain,  when  a  gentleman  with  a  wagon  came  up, 
which  proved  to  belong  to  Mr.  Strong,  a  distant  neigh 
bor  of  Stanford.  The  farmer  related  his  adventure, 


236  THE  OKPHAN. 

and  asked  for  assistance.  Mr.  Strong  readily  granted 
it.  .  They  tied  the  robber's  feet  and  hands,  he  making 
but  little  resistance,  put  him  into  the  wagon  and  carried 
him  to  Stanford's  house — his  own  wagon  and  the  rob 
ber's  horse  had  arrived  there  an  hour  before,  having 
started  the  moment  the  men  had  sprung  at  each  other. 

In  carrying  the  robber  to  the  house  where  there  was 
a  lamp,  and  he  could  fee  seen  distinctly,  James  recog 
nized  the  villain  at  once.  It  was  the  wretch,  Langdon, 
who  treated  him  so  unkindly,  and  beat  him  so  unmerci 
fully  years  before,  when  he  was  an?  inmate  of  the  alms- 
house. 

Langdon  pretended  to  feel  penitent,  and  even  wept, 
supposing  he  was  not  known. 

"It  was  my  first  offence,"  said  he,  "and  I  was 
driven  to  commit  the  act  by  sheer  necessity." 

"  "We  know  more  about  your  past  life  than  you  are 
aware  "of,"  remarked  Stanford.  "Were  you  not  the 

keeper  of  the  almshouse  in  ,  a  dozen  or  fifteen 

years  ago  ?  " 

This  question  made  the  villain  uneasy.  He  hesitated 
to  answer,  but  finally  said,  "  I  was." 

"  Do  you  remember  a  little  boy  by  the  name  of 
Stanford  that  was  an  inmate  of  the  house  about  that 
time?" 

This  was  an  uncomfortable  question,  but  the  robber 
replied :  "  There  were  so  many  there  that  I  cannot  rec 
ollect  them  all." 

"  But  don't  you  distinctly  remember  James  Stanford, 
the  orphan  boy  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  do." 

"  Do  you  remember  the  unmerciful  beatings  you  gave 
him?" 


THE  ORPHAN.  237 

Langdon  made  no  reply. 

"  If  you  have  forgotten  them,  I  have  not.  I  am  that 
orphan  boy,  and  shall  never  forget  your  cruelty.  But 
justice  has  overtaken  you  at  last." 

This  announcement  had  an  astonishing  effect  upon 
the  robber.  He  knew  that  he  was  discovered — that 
his  true  character  was  known,  and  that  strict  justice 
would  be  done  to  him. 

'Two  or  three  of  the  neighbors  set  up  with  Langdon 
that  night,  and  in  the  morning  an  officer  was  found  to, 
carry  him  to  the  county  jail.  He  was  tied  hands  and 
feet,  and  put  into  a  wagon  with  the  officer ;  but  as  they 
were  passing  over  a  bridge,  Langdon  gave  a  sudden 
spring  from  the  wagon,  and  before  he  could  be  secured, 
plunged  into  the  water  and  immediately  sunk.  His 
body  was  recovered  a  few  days  after  and  interred  on  the 
bank  of  the  river. 

Thus  closed  the  days  of  a  wretched  being,  who 
passed  from  one  degree  of  crime  to  another  until  he 
perished  by  his  own  hands. 

The  horse  of  the  robber  was  a  fine  one,  but  his  saddle 
bags  contained  but  very  little  money.  Stanford  heard 
that  for  the  last  five  years,  Langdon  had  been  an  out 
cast  and  a  robber^  but  had  thus  far  escaped  the  vigi 
lance  of  his  pursuers. 

Many  years  have  passed  away  since  the  events  we 
have  recorded,  but  James  Stanford  and  his  wife  still 
live  in  happiness  and  prosperity.  He  is  esteemed  as  a 
valuable  citizen  and  an  excellent  neighbor.  In  any  im 
portant  transactions,  he  is  consulted  by  the  villagers, 
and  his  opinions  are  given  with  caution  and  forethought 
and  carry  with  them  great  weight.  We  trust  that  he 


238  THE  ORPHAN. 

will  live  to  a  good  old  age,  and  that  his  life  will  con 
tinue  to  be  useful  and  happy.  When  he  is  removed  by 
death,  we  know  many  a  heart  will  be  sad,  and  many  a 
tear  will  moisten  his  grave. 


WHICH  SHALL  I  MARRY? 


CHAPTER    I. 

I  seek  a  female  in  whose  heart 
Domestic  virtues  share  a  part ; 
Who  loves  her  home,  and  there  will  shine, 
A  devotee  to  Wisdom's  shrine. 

"  I  CONFESS  I  am  at  a  stand,  Henry,"  remarked  Wil 
liam  Emerson  to  his  intimate  friend ;  "for  the  life  of 
me,  I  do  not  know  which  I  like  best  of  those  two  girls 
—  Sarah  Talbot  or  Jane  Emery.  They  are  both  capital 
girls  in  their  way,  and  would  both  make  excellent 
.wives  —  so  I  think.  All  the  fault  I  can  find  with  Sa 
rah  is,  that  she  is  rather  too  fashionable,  and  not  quite 
so  domestic  as  I  should  like  to  see  her." 

"That  I  consider  a  serious  objection  to  a  female, 
and  to  be  frank,  I  must  tell  you  so,"  remarked  Henry 
Willard.  "What  does  a  man  in  your  circumstances 
want  of  a  girl  who  cannot  work  ?  If  you  marry,  you 
should  have  a  wife  that  can  bake  and  wash  and  iron, 
and  do  a  thousand  little  things  that  a  fashionable  lady 
will  not  put  her  hands  to  without  fainting.  What 
kind  of  a  girl  is  Jane  ?  " 

"  As  fine  a  young  lady  as  you  will  find  in  the  city. 
She  is  not  so  handsome  as  Sarah,  I  confess ;  but  then 
she  is  not  carried  away  by  the  fashions  of  the  day. 


240  WHICH  SHALL  I  MAEEY  ? 

Visit  her  when  you  please,  and  you  will  find  her  busy 
about  something." 

"  I  know  whom  I  should  choose,"  remarked  Henry ; 
"  and  it  would  take  me  but  a  few  moments  to  decide,  if 
I  were  you.  Does  Sarah  ever  do  any  thin^  ?  " 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  have  visited  her  house  more 
or  less  for  two  or  three  years,  and  never  have  I  seen  a 
thimble  on  her  finger  or  a  needle  in  her  hand.  She  is 
either  braiding  her  hair  or  adjusting  her  dress  before 
the  glass,  or  poring  over  some  silly  novel.  Sometimes 
she  will  sing  and  dance,  but  never  have  I  seen  her  at 
work.  Yet .  Sarah  is  a  beautiful  girl ;  I  am  strongly 
attached  to  her,  and  I  think  she  will  make  me  a  good 
wife." 

"  We  are  apt  to  be  carried  away  by  a  pretty  face  and 
a  fine  form  and  a  sweet  voice,  I  know ;  but  what  are 
these,  William,  in  comparison  with  some  other  qualities  ? 
You  have  told  me  that  Jane  is  an  industrious  girl  ?  " 

"  She  certainly  is,  Henry.  I  think  I  never  went  into 
her  house  when  she  was  not  busy  about  something. 
She  always  has  work  in  her  hands.  Her  mother,  with 
Jane's  assistance,  does  all  the  work  in  the  family,  and 
that  is  not  a  little,  as  you  must  know." 

"  With  the  description  that  you  have  given  me  of  the 
two  girls,  I  think  you  cannot  do  better  than  select  the 
one  who  will  be  of  the  most  advantage  to  a  person  in 
your  circumstances.  You  are  not  able  at  present,  if 
you  should  get  married,  to  support  a  fashionable  wife 
in  all  her  whims  and  follies.  If  she  must  follow  the 
fashions  of  the  day,  it  will  take  more  than  you  can  pos 
sibly  earn  to  support  her.  What  a  person  of  your  cir 
cumstances  needs,  is  a  helpmeet  and  not  a  doll,  a  will 
ing  worker,  and  not  a  fine  singer ;  one  who  can  make 


WHICH   SHALL  I  MARRY?  241 

* 

bread,  and  not  a  dancer.  If  I.were  better  acquainted 
•with  the  young  ladies,  however,  I  should  be  better  able 
to  judge  which  of  the  two  would  make  the  better  wife 
for  me." 

"  Go  with  me  to  the  Cape  some  evening,  and  I  will 
introduce  you  to  them." 

"  Agreed.     "When  will  you  go  ?  " 

"  To-morrow  evening  I  will  call  on  Sarah,  if  you  are 
not  engaged." 

"  I  ^hall  not  be  engaged,  and  will  accompany  you." 

The  next  evening  found  the  two  friends  at  the  house 
of  Mr.  Talbot.  Sarah  was  a  fascinating  girl ;  she  was 
pretty  and  had  a  sweet  voice,  of  which  she  seemed  to 
be  particularly  proud.  She  sang  about  a  dozen  different 
songs  during  the  evening,  and  displayed  herself  to  no 
little  advantage,  Her  hair  showed  the  work  of  hours, 
and  her  fingers  were  adorned  with  costly  rings.  In 
short,  Sarah  was  such  a  girl  as  was  well  calculated  to 
captivate  the  heart  of  a  young  man  who  looked  merely 
to  the  outward  appearance. 

"  Well,  Henry,  how  are  you  pleased  with  Sarah  ?  " 
inquired  William  of  his  friend,  as  they  left  the  house. ' 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  was  not  remarkably  well 
pleased  with  her.  I  must  acknowledge  that  she  is 
pretty  to  look  at,  has  a  sweet  voice,  and  is  well  calcu 
lated  to  please  a  young  man  who  looks  only  to  appear 
ances.  She  must  have  spent  hours  in  adjusting  her 
hair  and  her  dress.  Her  hands  looked  as  if  they  had 
never  known  work.  And  then  her  conversation  was 
any  thing  but  agreeable  to  me.  What  do  I  care  about 
the  latest  fashions,  and  the  appearance  of  this  young 
woman  or  the  other  —  the  characters  in  this  novel  and 
in  that,  and  the  like  ?  It  would  cost  more  to  support 
21 


242  WHICH   SHALL  I  MARRY? 

tft 

a  woman  like  her,  William,  than  you  will  be  likely  to 
earn  for  many  years  to  come." 

"  1  don't  know  but  you  are  correct  in  your  opinion, 
but,  notwithstanding,  I  am  attached  to  her.  But  I 
wish  you  to-morrow  evening  to  go  with  me  to  Miss  Em 
ery's.  Will  you  go  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  think  I  have  nothing  particular  to  do  to 
morrow  evening." 

The  friends  parted.  On  the  following  evening,  they 
visited  the  house  of  Jane.  The  young  lady,  when  they 
entered,  was  seated  by  the  table  with  her  mother,  dili 
gently  at  work.  Occasionally  she  would  stop  a  few  mo 
ments,  while  they  were  conversing,  but  again  ply  her 
needle. 

The  hours  passed  pleasantly  away,  and  William  and 
his  companion  took  their  departure. 

"  Well,  Henry,  how  did  you  like  the  appearance  of 
Jane  ?  "  inquired  his  friend. 

"  Very  much  indeed.  To  be  sure  she  is  not  what 
people  would  call  handsome,  but  she  appears  so  agreea 
ble  and  pleasant,  that  no  one  could  help  loving  her. 
She  converses  intelligently,  and  during  the  whole  even 
ing  she  never  spoke  of  balls  or  novels,  or  said  aught 
of  any  one.  She  was  neat  in  her  dress  but  not  gaudy. 
Her  hair  was  done  up  with  taste,  and  'had  not  the  ap 
pearance  of  two  or  three  hours'  labor  in  fixing  it  for 
the  occasion ;  and  her  fingers  betrayed  but  a  solitary 
plain  ring.  More  than  all,  she  is  an  industrious  girl. 
She  continued  with  her  mother  to  work,  which  plainly 
shows  her  industrious  habits.  -  From  what  little  I  have 
seen  of  the  two  girls,  I  should  by  all  means  choose 
Jane,  if  I  wished  for  a  companion  and  a  wife." 

"  Do  you  really  think  she  would  make  the  better  wife 
of  the  two?" 


WHICH   SHALL  I  MARRY?  243 

"  Most  certainly  I  do." 

"Well,  I  shall  see  before  long.  Should  I  prosper 
in  my  business,  I  think  I  shall  take  me  a  wife  before 
many  months." 

"  Be  careful  how  you  choose.  Remember  your  future 
happiness  depends  mainly  on  this  important  step." 


CHAPTER     II. 

Bow  not  to  Fashion ;  they  who  feel 

The  influence  of  her  ban, 
Are  in  a  thraldom  more  debased 

Than  the  chained  African. 

CAPE  ELIZABETH  is  a  beautiful  place.  It  is  a  long 
neck  of  land  about  a  mile  from  Portland,  Maine,  and  is 
so  situated  that  it  breaks  up  the  sea  that  would  other 
wise  make  Portland  harbor  unsafe  for  vessels,  instead 
of  being  one  of  the  best  harbors  in  the  world.  In  Cape 
Elizabeth  and  round  about  it,  are  many  delightful  spots 
which  never  weary  the  heart  or  tire  the  eye,  when  gaz 
ing  upon  them.  You  have  a  view  of  the  ocean  and 
the  islands,'  and  vessels  are  continually  passing,  so  that  a 
ride  over  to  this  place  is  one  of  the  most  delicious  that 
can  be  enjoyed.  Thousands  resort  thither  in  the  warm 
days  of  summer,  and  are  refreshed  by  the  cooling 
breezes  and  the  delightful  scenery. 

There  are  many  excellent  farms  and  noble-hearted 
farmers  in  this  place.  Several  years  ago,  we  became 
acquainted  with  some  of  the  people,  and  now  often 
pass  a  happy  day  in  their  society. 


244  WHICH   SHALL  I  MARRY? 

Iii  the  town  of  Cape  Elizabeth,  lived  a  Mr.  Talbot,  a 
farmer,  who  had  become  independent.  He  had  several 
sons  and  but  one  daughter.  Unlike  many  of  her  com 
panions,  from  her  childhood  Sarah  was  proud  and  indo 
lent.  She  would  sit  and  read  from  morning  till  night, 
while  her  mother  was  obliged  to  wait  upon  her.  When 
she  arrived  at  the  age  of  fourteen  or  fifteen,  she  was 
sent  to  the  city  to  board,  that  she  might  learn  to  play 
on  the  piano  and  to  dance.  These  amusements  highly 
delighted  her,  and  she  became  what  is  so  common  now- 
a-days  —  a  fashionable  lady.  Sarah  had  a  near  neigh 
bor,  Jane  Emery,  who  was  as  much  unlike  her  as  possi 
ble.  She  was  always  at  work.  Her  parents  were  in 
humble  circumstances,  and  she  had  always  been  taught 
by  an  excellent  mother  to  be  industrious.  The  girls 
were  about  the  same  age,  and  for  a  season  attended  the 
same  school.  At  one  time  they  both  boarded  in  Port 
land,  and  received  instruction  from  a  high  school  for  fe 
males  taught  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Adams. 

"  Jane,  you  will  never  be  any  thing  but  an  old  maid," 
remarked  Sarah  to  her  one  day,  "  unless  you  spruce  up 
a  little.  Who  will  ever  think  of  having  you  for  a  com 
panion,  looking  as  you  do  ?  who,  except  that  great  calf 
of  a  fellow,  with  owl's  eyes  and  a  mouth  like  a  hinge, 
who  called  to  see  you  the  other  day  ?  You  should  fix 
up  your  hair,  and  sit  upright,  and  not  be  everlastingly 
at  work." 

"  Let  me  be  an  old  maid,  then,  Sarah.  I  am  sure  I 
can  never  consent  to  look  as  you  do.  Why,  you  are 
now  so  small  round  the  waist  that  your  system  must, 
suffer,  I  know.  And  then,  look  behind  you  —  when  I 
saw  you  pass  the  house  to-day,  I  could  not  but  laugh 
outright  at  your  ridiculous  appearance." 


WHICH  SHALL  I  MARRY?  245 

"  Why,  Jane,  it  is  all  the  fashion,  now ;  you  are  be 
hind  the  age.  Stooping  over  the  washtub,  has  made  you 
almost  as  round  as  a  hoop." 

"  You  mistake ;  I  do  not  stoop,  although  I  do  a  large 
part  of  our  washing.  I  should  be  ashamed  to  let 
mother  do  it  all." 

"  But  she  might  employ  some  poor  woman  to  do  it, 
or  part  of  it,  at  least." 

"  So  she  could,  if  she  were  able.  But  you  know  it 
is  as  much  as  we  can  do  to  get  along  and  pay  our  ex 
penses  ;  and  I  would  rather  work  than  not.  I  take  a 
great  deal  of  pleasure  in  assisting  about  the  house." 

"  Your  taste  is  different  from  mine  —  that's  all  I  have 
to  say." 

"  I  am  sorry  that  we  think  differently,  for  all  phy 
sicians  tell  us  that  a  little  labor  is  conducive  to  health, 
and  I  know  I  feel  much  happier  when  I  am"  about 
something." 

"  Jane,  I  wish  to  ask  you  a  question ;  how  are  you 
pleased  with  young  Emerson  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  don't  know  much  about  him.  He  appears 
to  be  a  likely  man." 

"Ay,  that  he  is  —  and  between  you  and  I — but 
don't  mention  it,  for  the  world  —  I  intend  to  have  him 
as  my  beau." 

"  To  do  that,  Sarah,  you  must  be  a  different  girl,  in 
my  way  of  thinking.  He  is  an  industrious,  prudent 
young  man,  I  judge,  and  when  he  takes  a  wife,  he  will 
select  one  who  is  not  ashamed  to  work." 

"You  know  nothing  about  him.  He  has  money 
enough,  and  will  not  want  his  wife  to  work  herself  to 
death." 

"  True,  but  he  will  want  his  wife  to  know  how  to 
21* 


243  WHICH  SHALL  I  MARRY? 

work  and  oversee  the  domestic  concerns.  With  your 
present  tastes  and  feelings,  you  cannot  do  either." 

"  I'll  risk  myself,  Jane.  If  I  were  obliged  to  be  a 
slave,  if  I  became  a  wife,  I  should  rather  be  an  old 
maid  all  my  days." 

"  But,  Sarah,  why  don't  you  learn  to  work  in  the 
kitchen  ?  Perhaps  you  may  never  be  obliged  to  do  this 
kind  of  work ;  but  it  is  necessary  for  you  to  know  how 
to  do  it." 

"  If  you  begin  to  work  in  the  kitchen,  you  are  not 
thought  any  thing  of,  but  few  call  to  see  you,  and  no 
respectable  young  man  thinks  of  waiting  upon  you." 

"  You  have  mistaken  notions  entirely.  I  don't  like 
to  offend  you,  but  I  know  your  mother  is  a  very  domes 
tic  woman.  I  venture  to  say  when  she  was  young,  she 
knew  all  about  culinary  employments." 

"Times  have  altered  since  then." 

"  Times  may  have  altered,  but  I  know  that  a  woman 
who  is  riot  too  indolent  to  work,  and  who  spends  a  por 
tion  of  her  time  usefully,  feels  happier  than  the  fash 
ionable  lady,  and  finds  more  true  friends.  An  in 
dustrious  young  man  is  generally  more  partial  to  her. 
If  Mr.  Emerson  is  such  a  man  as  I  think  him  to  be,  he 
would  much  prefer  to  know  you  spent  the  larger  por 
tion  of  your  time  at  home,  assisting  your  mother." 

"  Poh,  I  know  better." 

"  We  shall  see." 

By  the  above  conversation  the  reader  will  learn  the 
characters  of  Sarah  and  Jane.  One  had  been  brought 
up  in  fashionable  indulgence,  without  scarcely  lifting 
her  finger  to  help  herself.  Dress  she  considered  the  cri 
terion  of  character.  The  other  had  been  taught  by  a 
judicious  mother  to  improve  her  mind  —  to  work  in  the 


WHICH   SHALL  I   MARRY?  247 

kitchen,  and  employ  herself  about  something  that  was 
useful  during  her  evenings.  To  dress  decently  and 
modestly  was  all  she  desired.  No  new  fashion  turned 
her  head ;  no  fop  captivated  her  heart ! 


CHAPTER     III. 

Let  others  sing  of  lips  aryi  eyes, 

As  more  than  half  divine; 
The  virtues  of  the  heart  I  prize, 

And  these,  I  know,  are  thine. 

ONE  evening,  a  few  months  after  the  conversation  re 
lated  in  the  last  chapter  took  place,  young  Emerson 
called  upon  his  friend,  William.  "I  am  decided, 
Henry,"  said  he ;  "  my  mind  is  now  made  up." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  William  ?  "  inquired  Henry. 

"  Why,  don't  you  recollect  the  conversation  we  had 
several  months  since  respecting  Miss  Talbot  and  Miss 
Emery  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  remember." 

"  Well,  I  have  decided  in  favor  of  Jane,  the  indus 
trious  and  domestic  girl.  I  have  watched  the  move 
ments  of  both  for  a  long  time,  and  Jane,  I  am  confi 
dant,  is  the  girl  for  me.  She  will  be  a  companion  and 
a  friend,  if  I  am- so  lucky  as  to  obtain  her." 

"  I  cannot  but  commend  you  for  your  choice,  Wil 
liam.  What  little  I  saw  of  Miss  Talbot,  convinced  me 
she  was  not  the  girl  for  you.  But  pray  tell  me  what  in 
duced  you  to  decide  in  favor  of  Miss  Emery." 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  saw  nothing  in  Sarah,  if  I 


248  WHICH   SHALL  I  MARRY  ? 

may  except  her  pretty  looks,  her  singing  and  her  dano 
ing,  that  I  cared  a  fig  for.  As  many  times  as  I  visited 
her  house,  I  never  saw  a  needle  in  her  hand.  I  verily 
believe  she  cannot  darn  a  stocking  or  make  a  batch  of 
bread.  For  me  to  have  selected  such  a  girl  for  a  wife 
would  have  been  the  height  of  folly.  Besides,  Sarah 
has  had  several  suitors,  but  they  were  either  disgusted 
with  her  manners,  or  she  turned  them  off  for  new  faces. 
Our  neighbor,  Edward  Simons,  told  me  that  he  was 
once  favorably  struck  with  Sarah's  appearance,  and  for 
several  months  visited  her  house,  but  when  he  learned 
her  disposition  and  character,  he  immediately  forsook 
her  company.  There  is  nothing  pleases  her  so  much  as 
balls  and  cotillons,  where  she  can,  go  and  display  her 
self  in  dancing.  I  have  known  her  to  spend  half  a  day 
in  preparing  for  one  of  these  exhibitions.  Her  hair, 
of  which  she  is  exceedingly  proud,  employs  many  hours 
of  her  time.  Every  braid  must  look  just  so.  Nothing 
short  of  two  hours  before  the  glass,  will  satisfy  her  in 
adjusting  her  braids  and  her  curls.  And  then,  too,  she 
has  a  pleasant  voice,  of  which  she  is.  very  particular  to 
give  a  stranger  notice,  especially  when  she  has  an  op 
portunity  of  thumping  on  the  piano." 

"  I  recollect,  William,  her  displaying  herself  when  I 
called  on  her  with  you.  If  she  had  not  exerted  herself 
for  effect,  I  should  have  been  pleased  with  her  voice ; 
but  as  it  was,  I  was  rather  disgusted." 

"  And  then,  too,  Sarah  wants  everybody  to  wait 
upon  her.  She  tells  her  mother  to  do  this  thing  and 
the  other,  as  if  she  were  sole  mistress  of  the  house. 
If  her  brothers  do  not  run  at  her  call,  or  obtain  what 
she  requests,  she  is  very  angry,  and  makes  use  of 
words  that  would  shame  another  girl.  I  feel  thankful 


WHICH  SHALL  I  MARRY?  249 

that  I  found  her  out,  and  I  believe  it  was  by  your  sug 
gestion  that  I  was  more  particular." 

"How  is  it,  William,  with  Jane?  Are  you  well 
pleased  with  her  ?  " 

"  I  never  saw  a  girl  I  liked  so  well.  She  is  always 
busy  and  always  pleasant.  Visit  the  house  when  she 
is  about  her  work,  and  she  never  colors  and  never 
makes  apologies.  Instead  of  conversing  on  frivolous 
subjects,  she  always  has  something  interesting  to  commu 
nicate.  She  has  read  a  great  deal  and  of  the  right  sort. 
She  knows  nothing  about  Ingraham's  or  Bradbury's 
last  work ;  but  she  will  converse  on  any  department  of 
science  or  history.  Instead  of  devoting  her  time  to 
dress  and  the  various  follies  of  the  times,  she  improves 
her  leisure  hours  in  study,  or  in  perusing  valuable 
works.  And  then  she  is  always  agreeable.  You  never 
find  her  in  the  sulks  —  never.  She  is  cheerful  and 
happy,  and  instead  of  calling  upon  her  mother  to  bring 
her  this  article  and  the  other,  she  goes  after  it  herself 
and  assists  her  parent  all  in  her  power.  I  never  heard 
her  speak  an  unkind  or  an  unpleasant  word  to  any 
member  of  the  family.  She  is  the  girl  for  me." 

"  As  I  said  before,  I  highly  approve  of  your  choice. 
If  you  get  that  girl,  you  will  have  a  prize  indeed. 
Does  she  seem  to  favor  your  suit  ?  " 

"  Certainly  she  does,  and  there  is  a  right  understand 
ing  between"  us.  Since  Sarah  has  noticed  my  partial 
ity  to  Jane,  she  takes  every  opportunity  to  treat  us 
both  with  contempt.  Poor  girl,  she  is  her  own  worst 
enemy,  and  is  not  worth  minding." 


250  WHICH  SHALL  I  MARKY  ? 


CHAPTER    IV. 

One  error,  when  persisted  in, 

Though  trifling  it  may  be, 
Will  lead  to  dangerous  paths  of  sin, 

At  last  to  ruin  thee. 

IN  the  fall  of  183-,  there  was  a  marriage  in  Cape 
Elizabeth  —  William  Emerson  was  united  to  Jane  Em 
ery.  There  being  no  minister  in  the  place,  Rev.  Mr. 
Adams,  of  Portland,  was  sent  for,  who  solemnly  united 
the  happy  couple.  A  number  of  friends  were  present, 
and  among  the  rest  was  Henry  Willard.  Every  thing 
went  off  well,  and  all  the  guests  appeared  to  be  happy. 
The  parents  of  Jane  were  humble  people,  but  they  as 
sisted  her  all  in  their  power,  and  she  had  almost  every 
thing  that  was  necessary  for  her  to  commence  house 
keeping  with.  William  had  been  doing  business  for 
himself  for  some  time,  and  had  prospered.  As  soon  as 
the  company  broke  up,  Emerson  and  his  wife  rode  to 
Portland,  and  commenced  housekeeping  in  the  dwelling 
that  they  occupy  at  the  present  time.  It  is  said  that 
he  has  made  money,  and  is  in  a  fair  way  to  become  one 
of  our  richest  merchants.  We  hope  it  is  correct,  for  a 
better-hearted  man  we  know  not  where  to  find. 

Last  summer,  as  my  friend  Becket  and  myself  were 
riding  leisurely  along,  enjoying  the  beautiful  scenery 
on  the  Cape,  we  met  Mr.  Talbot  in  the  road,  and  being 
acquainted  with  him,  had  quite  a  chat.  He  finally  in 
sisted  on  our  taking  tea  at  his  house.  The  pressing  in- 


WHICH  SHALL  I  MARRY?  251 

vitation  we  could  not  resist,  and  we  therefore  hitched 
our  horses  and  went  in.  And  there  were  Sarah  and  her 
mother,  whom  we  had  not  seen  before  for  many  a  day. 
The  old  lady  was  sociable  and  agreeable,  but  her 
daughter  seemed  averse  to  talking.  The  rose  had 
•  faded  from  her  cheek,  and  her  hair,  which  was  once  so 
beautiful,  was  sprinkled,  we  noticed,  with  gray.  Two 
or  three  wrinkles  had  been  added  to  her  forehead,  and 
she  seemed  the  completest  specimen  of  an  old  maid  we 
had  ever  seen.  With  every  tiling  to  make  her  happy, 
she  seemed  determined  to  be  miserable,  at  least  so  we 
thought. 

After  spending  an  agreeable  hour  with  the  old  folks, 
we  arose  to  leave.  At  that  moment  Sarah  left  the 
room. 

"  Don't  you  think  Sarah  has  altered  a  great  deal  in 
her  looks  ?  "  said  the  old  gentleman,  addressing  me. 

"  Very  much,"  I  replied. 

"  Poor  girl !  she  has  endured  every  thing  with  that 
rascally  husband  of  hers." 

"  Indeed !     Is  she  married  ?  " 

"  Why,  she  was  married  three  years  ago  to  one  of 
your  Portland  men  whom  we  all  considered  an  excel 
lent  character ;  but  he  turned  out  a  villain.  John  Al- 
son  is  a  drunkard,  and  abuses  his  wife ;  so  much  so, 
that  we  have  now  taken  her  home." 

We  expressed  our  surprise  and  regrTst,  when  the  old 
gentleman  continued, — 

"  I  fear  it  will  be  the  death  of  the  girl." 

We  knew  Alson,  but  for  the  first  time  we  learned 
that  he  was  the  husband  of  Sarah.  He  was  indeed  a 
villain ;  no  one  could  depend  upon  him ;  and  how  in  the 


252  WHICH  SHALL  I  MARRY? 

world  Miss  Talbot  could  ever  have  fancied  him  was  a 
mystery  to  us. 

We  drove  into  Portland,  conversing  all  the  while 
upon  the  ill-luck  of  Sarah  and  her  rascally  husband. 

She  had  false  notions.  She  did  not  begin  life  aright, 
and  this  was  her  ruin.  Had  she  been  industrious  and. 
prudent,  like  her  young  companion,  Jane  Emery,  it  is 
more  than  probable  she  would  have  succeeded  as  well 
and  been  as  happy. 

There  are  many  girls  who  are  now  as  frivolous  and 
as  idle  as  Sarah  was.  Let  them  take  warning.  Few 
industrious  and  worthy  young  men  can  approve  of 
your  conduct.  If  you  wish  to  secure  good  husbands 
and  happy  homes,  be  industrious,  and  discard  the  fool 
ish  fashions,  of  the  day.  Live  not  to  please  the  eye 
alone,  but  to  improve  and  elevate  the  heart. 


STORY  OF  ELLEN. 


If  but  a  single  thought  I  drop  • 

Into  a  drowsy  ear, 
It  may  revive  the  spark  of  hope, 

And  the  desponding  cheer. 
A  word  may  save  where  volumes  fail, 

If  spoken  from  the  heart, 
And  with  the  dying  soul  prevail, 

And  life  and  joy  impart. 
Te  all  can  speak  a  gentle  word, 

To  bless  the  weak  and  low, 
And  o'er  life's  dark  and  thorny  road 

Sweet  flowers  and  sunshine  throw. 

IT  was  the  custom  in  my  early  days  for  children  of 
both  sexes  to  attend  the  same  district  school.     And  I 
remember  distinctly  the  happy  faces  that  congregated 
every  day  to  gather  instruction  from  our  worthy  mas 
ter.     Among  the  females  there  was  one,  who,- for  her 
beauty  and  modest  deportment,  had  secured  the  love, 
and  respect  of  the  whole  school.     She  had  a  dark,  bril 
liant  eye,  a  beautiful  forehead,  and  a  pleasant  counte 
nance.     Rich  auburn  hair  fell  in  graceful  curls  about 
her  neck.     It  was  not  often  that  Ellen  received  a  rep 
rimand  from  her  teacher,  whose  partiality  was  evident, 
from  the    frequent    smiles    he    bestowed    upon    her.' 
While  her  companions  were  at  their  plays,  or  were  care 
lessly  wasting  their  time    in    frivolous    amusements, 
Ellen  was,  attentive  to  her  studies,  and  treasuring  up 


254  STOEY  OF  ELLEN. 

usefuf  information.  As  her  parents  were  in  rather  indi 
gent  circumstances,  she  was  sometimes  slighted  by  her 
more  wealthy  schoolmates,  but,  notwithstanding,  she  was 
cheerful  and  pleasant,  and  even  grateful  for  the  smile 
of  love  or  approbation.  For  years  I  attended  this 
school  with  Ellen,  and  during  all  the  time,  I  do  not  rec 
ollect  of  any  impropriety  in  her  conduct,  but  on  the 
contrary,  she  was  a  pattern  which  would  have  done 
honor  to  any  female  to  follow.  Amiable,  kind,  and  af 
fectionate,  she  secured  the  friendship  of  many,  so  that 
when  she  finally  left  the  school,  she  had  not  an  enemy 
behind.  About  the  same  time  I  went  to  learn  the  mys 
teries  of  a  mechanical  trade.  Not  hearing  the  name  of 
Ellen,  I  seldom  thought  of  her  excepting  when,  meet 
ing  with  an  old  schoolfellow,  we  would  name  over  the 
companions  of  our  early  days.  I  finished  my  trade,  — 
having  spent  seven  of  my  best  years  in  its  acquisition, — 
and  "  set  up "  for  myself,  but  never  saw  or  heard  of 
Ellen.  I  made  frequent  inquiries  of  my  friends,  but 
no  one  had  heard  from  her  since  she  was  a  playful  girl. 
It  might  be  that  she  had  died  early,  or  that  she  had  re 
moved  to  a  distant  town,  or  that  she  had  become  the 
amiable  and  accomplished  wife  of  some  devoted  hus 
band.  At  times,  I  would  feel  anxious  to  know  what 
had  become  of  the  beautiful  being,  whose  opening 
youth  seemed  to  be  the  precursor  of  a  glorious  sequel. 
Years  passed  away,  and  I  was  fast  verging  to  the  me 
ridian  of  life,  when  one  day  an  opportunity  presented 
itself  to  visit  the  poorhouse,  belonging  to  my  native 
town.  It  contained  a  number  of  sick,  aged,  and 
wretched  beings,  who  had  been  placed  there  on  account 
of  their  friendlessness  and  poverty.  Others  had  become 
victims  .of  intemperance,  and  were  thus  shut  out  from 


STORY  OF  ELLEN.  255 

temptation  to  prevent  the  further  inroads  of  disease, 
and  to  stay  the  steps  which  were  fast  tending  to  shame 
and  infamy.  In  visiting  the  several  departments,  I  was 
struck  with  the  misery  that  seemed  depicted  on  many  a 
countenance,  which  once  doubtless  was  the  index  of  a 
happy  heart.  In  an  upper  room,  which  I  came  near 
passing  without  entering,  on  a  low  pallet,  I  observed 
the  wasted  form  of  a  female,  who  appeared  to  be  in  the 
last  stages  of  consumption.  As  I  approached  her,  she 
cast  her  hollow,  glassy  eyes  upon  me,  and  in  a  mo 
ment  I  discovered  the  countenance  of  my  early  school 
mate,  the  once  happy  and  beautiful  Ellen.  Her  former 
beauty  had  not  forsaken  her,  but  disease,  or  sorrow,  or 
infamy,  had  traced,  in  lines  too  legible  to  be  misunder 
stood,  its  desolating  imprint  upon  her  hectic  brow.  As 
I  approached  her,  she  recognized  me  instantly,  and  a 
tear  came  in  her  eye. 

"  Ellen,"  said  I,  "  can  it  be  possible  ?  my  early 
schoolmate  and  friend  in  so  wretched  a  condition  ?  am 
I  not  deceived  ?  " 

"Ah  no  —  no,"  said  she,  "  you  are  not  deceived — 
it  is  indeed  Ellen,  or  the  shadow  of  what  she  once  was, 
• — but  I'll  tell  you  all,"  and  a  flow  of  tears  checked 
her  utterance.  I  was  fearful  lest  the  excitement  of  the 
occasion 'should  have  a  deleterious  influence  upon  her 
feeble  mind.  Indeed,  her  exhaustion  was  so  great  that 
it  was  impossible  for  her  to  proceed,  and  I  left,  after 
faithfully  promising  that  I  would  soon  call  and  see  her 
again.  As  I  left,  painful  thoughts  entered  my  bosom ; 
to  think  of  the  end  to  which  this  once  beautiful  being 
was  approaching  —  in  the  poorhouse  —  away  from  her 
friends  —  with  no  kind  hands  to  minister  to  her  wants, 
and  with  no  hearts  to  truly  sympathize  in  her  condition. 


256  STORY  OP  ELLEN. 

The  keeper  of  the  house  informed  me  that  this  young 
woman  had  been  an  inmate  of  the  establishment  but  a 
few  weeks,  —  that  she  was  brought  there  in  a  state  of 
beastly  intoxication,  and  that  the  language  which  came 
from  her  lips  was  the  most  profane  and  impure  that  he 
had  ever  heard,  —  that  she  soon  after  took  to  her  bed, 
and  would  probably  never  be  removed  from  it,  till  car 
ried  out  to  the  grave. 

In  a  few  days,  as  I  had  promised,  I  called  again  to 
see  Ellen.  She  had  grown  weaker  in  the  interim,  and 
was  rapidly  wasting  for  the  tomb.  When  I  approached 
her  bedside,  1  saw  a  smile  of  gratitude  play  upon  her 
countenance,  as  she  expressed  her  joy  in  seeing  me 
again. 

"I  cannot  live  long,*'  said  she,  "but  once  I  little 
thought  of  this !  "  and  she  sobbed  aloud ;  but  my  anx 
iety  to  know  what  brought  her  to  her  present  miserable 
condition,  induced  her  to  relate  what  follows :  — 

"  I  was  poor,  but  I  was  happy ;  indulgent  parents 
caressed  me.  Had  they  lived,  my  course  would  have 
been  virtuous,  my  end  glorious.  But  at  an  early  age 
I  was  doomed  to  be  an  orphan.  Within  a  few  months 
of  each  other,  both  my  parents  died,  and  left  me  with 
none  to  guide  or  counsel  me,  but  a  distant  relative, 
who  treated  me  more  like  a  slave  than  a  friend.  I  had 
no  protector,  and  was  obliged  to  remain  in  this  situa 
tion,  and  bear  as  well  as  I  was  able,  the  unpleasant  dis 
positions  of  the  family.  This  relative  had  a  daughter 
a  few  months  older  than  myself,  who  was  full  of  pride 
and  vanity,  and  seemed  to  think  herself  far  superior  to 
the  rest  of  her  sex.  Her  father  was  rich,  and  bestowed 
upon  her  all  her  heart  could  desire.  I  was  constantly 
employed  in  some  menial  service,  and  it  was  exceed- 


STORY   OF  ELLEN.  257 

ingly  difficult  for  me  always  to  obtain  clothing  necessaiy 
for  my  comfort.  When  I  was  about  eighteen  years  of 
age,  a  young  man  of  gentlemanly  appearance  came  of 
ten  to  the  house  to  see  my  relation's  daughter.  They 
were  very  intimate,  but  I  never  had  spoken  to  him. 
One  evening,  I  happened  to  meet  him  at  the  door ;  he 
spoke  kindly  to  me,  and  inquired  for  Jane,  who  im 
mediately  came,  and  they  entered  the  parlor  together. 
I  indistinctly  heard  him  inquire  respecting  me,  when 
Jane  remarked, '  She  is  our  servant  girl  only,'  and  im 
mediately  turned  the  conversation  to  another  subject. 
Occasionally,  I  saw  this  young  man,  whose  name  was 

L .     He  was  attentive  and  polite,  which  was  very 

gratifying  to  one  who  seldom  received  any  thing  from 
human  beings,  but  an  unkind  look  or  an  angry  word. 

From  the  time  that  L first  spoke  to  me,  I  noticed  a 

change  in  Jane's  conduct.  No  pleasant  word  escaped 
her  lips  when  I  was  in  her  presence.  I  bore  it  all 
without  complaint,  although  at  times  a  tear  would  fall, 
when  reflecting  on  my  lonely  lot.  Thus  time  passed 

on,  and  L was  as  constant  as  ever  in  his  attention 

to  Jane,  who,  day  by  day,  grew  more  irascible  in  the 
house,  and  treated  me  with  more  contempt  than  ever. 
Pride  lived  and  reigned  in  her  heart.  But  I  noticed 

that  L ,  now  seldom  spoke  to  me,  and  was  inclined 

to  pass  me  by  without  uttering  a  word.  This  I  could 
not  understand,  especially  as  I  had  given  him  no  occa 
sion  to  slight  me,  and  I  conjectured  it  was  on  account 
of  what  Jane  might  have  said  of  me.  I  was  determined 
to  know  the  truth.  Accordingly,  I  sought  every  oppor 
tunity  to  hear  the  conversation  that  passed  between 

them,  to  know  the  cause  of  L 's  indifference.     But 

I  could  ascertain  nothing  definitely.      One  day  when 
22* 


.258  STORY  OF  ELLEN. 

Jane  had  gone  out,  L unexpectedly  came  in.     He 

seated  himself  and  began  to  converse  freely  with  me. 
It  was  not  long  before  Jane  returned  and  found  us  to 
gether.  I  saw  the  fire  in  her  countenance,  while  she 
affected  perfect  good  feeling,  and  as  I  left  the  room,  I 

heard  her  harshly  rebuke  L for  his  familiarity  with 

the  kitchen  girl.  I  was  grieved  to  the  soul.  I  knew  that 
my  character  was  as  irreproachable  as  hers,  and  that 
the -only  difference  between  us  was,  she  had  wealthy 
parents  and  I  was  poor.  The  first  opportunity  I  had 
of  obtaining  a  place,  I  was  determined  to  improve.  It 
was  not  long  before  I  succeeded.  Not  many  days  after 
I  had  been  pleasantly  situated  in  a  fine  family,  I  was 

one  evening  surprised  at  the  appearance  of  L ,  who 

seemed  pleased  at  the  happy  change  I  had  made.  He 
was  free  and  sociable,  and  when  he  departed,  remarked 
that  he  would  call  upon  me  again.  He  did  call,  and  I 
encouraged  his  visits,  when  one  evening  he  informed 
me  that  he  had  become  disgusted  with  the  society  of 
Jane,  and  had  entirely  broken  off  his  visits  to  her.  He 
made  a  certain  proposal  to  me,  to  which  I  acceded,  lit 
tle  thinking  what  would  be  the  result.  I  became 

strongly  attached  to  L ,  and  had  no  doubt  but  'at 

some  future  time  I  should  become  his  wife.  But  after 
his  purposes  were  accomplished,  he  cruelly  deserted  me. 
I  was  stung  with  remorse,  and  grief  preyed  deeply 
upon  my  spirits.  I  had  but  few  friends,  and  they 
looked  upon  me  with  suspicion,  and  finally  forsook  me. 
I  left  my  place,  -not  knowing  where  to  direct  my  steps, 
and  finally  took  up  my  abode  with  those  who  live  on 
the'  profits  of  crime.  I  now  gave  myself  up  to  every 
evil  propensity  —  would  drink  and  swear  with  my  mis 
erable  associates,  until  I  became  as  great  a  proficient 


STORY  OP  ELLEN.  259 

in  vice  as  the  most  abandoned.  But  I  was  far  from  be 
ing  happy.  Misery  was  my  constant  companion,  and  I 
would  often  resort  to  intoxicating  drinks  to  drown  my 
sorrow.  For  a  number  of  years  I  continued  to  live  in 
this  miserable  condition,  an  enemy  to  God  and  man,  till 
in  one  of  my  drunken  revels  I  was  brought,  unconscious, 
to  this  house.  Soon  after,  I  was  taken  sick,  and  I  have 
been  growing  weaker  and  weaker  ever  since.  My  eins 
rose  in  terror  before  me,  and  when  I  thought  of  death, 
an  awful  feeling  came  over  me.  What  could  I  do  ?  I 
looked  to  God  —  that  God  I  had  cursed  and  despised, 
and  I  prayed  for  forgiveness.  Oh,  the  rich  mercy  of 
Christ !  I  am  now,  as  I  humbly  trust,  a  redeemed  sin 
ner.  I  cannot  express  the  gratitude  I  feel  to  him  for 
his  great  mercy  to  me,  an  unworthy  worm  of  the  dust. 
It  is  marvellous  to  me  that  Heaven  should  spare  me 
through  all  my  vileness,  and  then  show  unto  me  his 
great,  inexpressible  mercies." 

Thus  did  this  poor,  forsaken  girl  speak  of  her  deliv 
erance  from  the  thraldom  of  sin,  till  weak  nature  was 
nearly  exhausted.  And  often  during  her  sickness,  did 
I  visit  her  bed,  and  find  the  same  strong  faith  and  hope 
in  her  Redeemer.  As  she  grew  nearer  to  her  end,  she 
was  much  engaged  in  prayer,  never  expressing  a  de 
sire  to  recover,  excepting  that  she  might  prove  useful  to 
those  deluded  creatures,  in  whose  society  she  had  spent 
many  of  her  precious  days.  The  last  time  I  saw  her, 
she  could  scarcely  speak,  and  I  conversed  but  little 
with  her,  but  she  seemed  already  ripe  for  the  kingdom 
of  God. 

She  died  without  a-  struggle,  and  was  interred  in  the 
cemetery  connected  with  the  poorhouse. 


GOOD  FOR  EVIL. 


Envy,  a  cursed  plant  at  best, 

Is  never  favored  friendship's  guest ; 

It  lives  and  flourishes  alone 

Where  virtuous  love  is  never  known. 

"  WELL,  Harry,  I  have  seen  Mr.  Favor,  and  he  agrees 
to  take  you  on  trial.  He  is  a  very  strict  man,  and  will 
keep  no  boy  who  is  not  perfectly  willing  to  obey  him, 
and  is  honest  and  trustworthy." 

"  'Tis  just  such  a  place  as  I  want,  father.  I  know  I 
shall  like  to  retail  goods." 

"  You  must  always  remember  that  Mr.  Favor  is  your 
master,  and  whatever  he  tells  you  to  do,  you  must  not 
hesitate  to  perform.  A  stranger  will  not  overlook  a 
great  deal  that  your  parents  would.  If  you  should  be 
neglectful,  or  contrary,  or  disobedient,  he  will  not  keep 
you,  and  it  will  be  far  more  difficult  to  obtain  another 
situation.  Few  persons  will  have  confidence  in.  a  boy 
that  often  changes  his  place.  They  come  to  the  con 
clusion  at  once  that  he  is  either  shiftless,  or  dishonest, 
and  think  it  unsafe  to  employ  him." 

"But  I  shall  be  careful  to  do  what  Mr.  Favor  re 
quests  me,  and  will  never  disobey  him." 

"  I  trust  you  will  obey  him,"  said  his  mother,  "  for  it 
would  nearly  kill  me  to  have  it  said  that  my  son  was  a 
bad  boy,  and  was  turned  away  from  his  place.  If  you 


'      GOOD   FOR  EYIL.  261 

are*  obedient,  attend  well  to  your  business,  and  feel  in 
terested  in  your  master's  welfare,  it  will  be  for  your  hap 
piness  and  interest.  If  you  live,  it  will  be  a  pleasant 
thought  to  reflect  upon,  besides  gaining  for  you  many 
friends.  I  have  heard  it  said  that  men  take  more  no 
tice  of  'clerks  and  apprentices,  than  they  are  aware  of. 
If  they  are  steady,  and  attend  punctually  to  their  du 
ties,  they  observe  it ;  and  so,  too,  if  they  are  lazy,  shift 
less,  and  idle.  I  do.  hope  and  pray,  Harry,  that  you 
will  be  a  good  boy.  Be  sure  and  not  stay  out  during 
your  leisure  evenings,  but  read  useful  books,  and  en 
deavor  to  improve  your  mind." 

"  You  need  have  no  fears  about  me,  mother ;  I  shall 
try  to  do  my  best." 

Henry  Safford  was  fourteen  years  of  age.  His 
father,  an  humble  mechanic,  had  obtained  for  him  a 
place  at  the  store  of  Mr.  Favor,  an  English  goods  mer 
chant,  where  he  was  to  commence  his  duties  on  the 
following  Monday.  Harry  had  been  taught  most  ex 
cellent  precepts  from  his  parents,  who  ever  set  before 
him  a  good  example.  He  was  not  given  to  any  bad 
habits,  and  the  prospect  was  that  he  would  grow  up 
a  good  and  useful  man. 

On  the  following  week,  Henry  left  the  roof  of  his  par 
ents,  and  entered  the  store  of  his  master.  He  found 
there  -another  boy,  about  two  years  his  senior,  by  the 
name  of  Francis  Bradley.  This  youth  took  particular 
pains  to  initiate  Henry  into  the  business.  He  told  him 
the  prices  of  the  goods,  and  taught  him  how  to  meas 
ure  them  off. 

"  The  old  man  is  an  odd  crony,"  said  Francis,  "and 
to  get  .along  with  him,  you  must  keep  a  sharp  lookout. 
Whenever  he  is  in  the  store,  always  be  busy  putting  up 


262  GOOD  FOR  EVIL. 

goods  or  cleaning  up  the  shop,  and  be  as  spry  as  possi 
ble  when  you  wait  upon  customers.  If  they  don't 
want  one  thing,  show  them  another,  and  be  sure  and 
tell  them  we  sell  cheaper  than  at  any  other  store. 
This  will  please  the  old  man,  and  he  will  like  you." 

"  But  mustn't  I  do  the  same  when  Mr.  Favor  is  ab 
sent  from  the  shop  ?  "  inquired  Henry. 

"Why,  as    to  that,   you  needn't  be   so  particular 
about  it.     If  we  can  make  him  think  we  do  the  best 
we  can,  it  will  answer  as  well." 
*   "  That  doesn't  seem  to  be  hardly  right." 

"  You're  green  yet,  Harry.  By  and  by,  you  will  un 
derstand  matters,  and  find  that  my  advice  is  good. 
Now,  mark  my  word." 

"Perhaps  I  may.  But  I  shall v always  try  to  do  my 
best  for  Mr.  Favor,  and  then  he  will  not  censure  me." 

"  This  selling  dry  goods  is  curious  business,  Harry ; 
one  must  understand  it  pretty  well  or  he  cannot  make 
a  living.  You  will  understand  it  all  in  time." 

Henry  busied  himself  through  the  day  in  his  new  em 
ployment,  and  being  quick  to  learn,  and  feeling  an  inter 
est  in  his  business,  he  succeeded  admirably.  At  night, 
when  he  and  Francis  retired,  he  felt  a  little  unhappy. 
It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  ever  slept  from  beneath 
his  father's  roof,  and  no  kind  mother  came  into  his 
chamber  to  see  if  he  were  warm,  and  lay  comfortably. 
But  he  soon  lost  himself  in  sleep.  In  the  morning  he 
rose  early  to  open  the  shop,  and  attend  to  his  business. 
After  a  few  weeks  had  passed  away,  Henry  was  quite 
contented  and  seemed  to  enjoy  himself.  He  liked  his ' 
master,  who  seemed  to  be  always  agreeable.  Francis 
and  he  lived  very  pleasantly  together,  although  he  no 
ticed  that  his  companion  was  not  particular  always  to 


GOOD   FOR  EVIL.  263 

speak  the  truth,  and  accustomed  himself  to  use  pro 
fane  language,  and  sometimes  associated  with  young 
persons  who  did  not  sustain  good  characters.  One  day 
he  said  to  him  —  "  Francis,  I  don't  see  how  you  can  en- 
.  joy  the  society  I  saw  you  in  last  evening,  as  I  was  pass 
ing  Mr. 's  confectionery." 

"  0  Harry !  they  are  clever  fellows.  Sometimes  they 
treat  me  to  a  pie,  or  to  cake,  and  we  pass  our  time 
in  real  enjoyment." 

"  Do  they  usually  spend  much  money  there  ?  " 

"  Not  a  great  deal.  But  they  always  seem  to  have 
money  enough.  Their  parents  are  rich." 

"  Do  you  ever  treat  them,  Frank  ?  " 

"Yes,  occasionally.  It  would  be  mean  and  nig 
gardly  if  I  did  not.  I  should  like  to  have  you  go  with 
me  some  night.  I  am  sure  you  would  enjoy  it.  Mr. 

,  who  keeps  the  shop,  is  as  fine  a  fellow  as  ever 

lived.  Will  you  go  ?  " 

"  I  should  rather  not." 

"  Why,  what  makes  you  hesitate  ?  " 

"  One  reason  is,  I  have  no  money  to  spend,  and  be 
sides,  I  don't  think  my  father  would  like  to  have  me  go 
there." 

"  What,  Henry,  do  you  care  for  your  father  when  you 
want  to  enjoy  yourself  a  little  ?  Everybody  will  laugh 
at  you.  Come,  go  with  me  to-night." 

"  No,  I  cannot." 

"  You're  a  fool,  and  will  never  be  any  thing ;  that  I 
can  assure  you." 

Henry  knew  the  wages  of  his  companion  were  small 
and  that  his  parents  were  poor,  and  he  wondered  where 
he  could  obtain  his  money  to  spend  at  the  confection 
er's.  He  dare  not  question  his  honesty,  and  yet  he 


264  GOOD  FOR  EVIL. 

4  could  not  account  for  his  having  money  to  spend  so 
freely.  After  his  meals,  he  would  often  bring  candy 
and  cakes  into  the  shop,  and  give  part  of  them  to 
Henry.  One  day  he  asked  Francis  where  he  could 
get  the  money  to  purchase  so  much. 

"  Oh,  I  pick  it  up  in  various  ways,"  said  he,  u  I 
sometimes  make  little  trades  with  companions,  and  my 
father  gives  me  part  of  what  he  receives  from  the  old 
man." 

"  But  I  think  I  would  not  spend  it  so  foolishly,  if  I 
were  you." 

"  Money  is  good  for  nothing  but  to  spend.  I  may  as 
well  enjoy  it  as  others." 

"  You  will  need  it  perhaps  at  some  future  time." 

"  Oh,  no  ;  I  can  always  get  a  good  living." 

Henry  mistrusted  that  Francis  came  by  his  money 
dishonestly,  and  to  ascertain,  he  frequently  counted  the 
money  in  the  drawer  when  he  went  out  and  often  found 
from  ten  to  fifty  cents  gone.  Sometimes  he  came  to  the 
conclusion  to  mention  it  to  his  master,  but  was  afraid 
hs  might  incur  the  displeasure  of  his  companion,  and 
so  kept  it  to  himself. 

Months  passed  on,  and  Francis  continued  to  visit  the 
confectionery  shop  with  those  young  men  who  had  but 
little  to  do,  and  there  spent  the  larger  portion  of  his 
evenings.  Coming  home  one  night,  Henry  found  a 
twenty-live  cent  piece  on  the  floor  of  his  chamber, 
and  taking  it  up  he  discovered  it  was  the  very  one  he 
had  taken  that  day  of  a  customer.  He  knew  it  by  the 
letters  K.  S.  which  some  one  had  stamped  upon  it. 
Now  he  was  certain  in  his  own  'mind,  that  his  compan 
ion  was  dishonest,  and  he  resolved  to  charge  him  with 
it  as  soon  as  he  returned. 


GOOD   FOR  EVIL.  265 

"  I've  had  a  fine  time  to-night,"  said.  Francis  as  he- 
entered  the  chamber.  "If  you  had  been  with  us, 
Harry,  you  would  have  enjoyed  yourself,  I  know." 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  ?  " 

"  We've  been  down  to ,  where  we  had  as  fine  an 

oyster  soup  as  ever  I  tasted.     We  had  every  thing  else 
to  correspond.     It  was  glorious,  I  tell  you." 

"  But  who  paid  for  it  all  ?  " 

"  Oh,  we  each  put  in  so  much." 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Frank,  I  don't  believe  you  all 
came  by  your  money  honestly." 

"  What  is  that  you  say,  Harry  ?  Do  you  accuse  me 
of  stealing,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  actually  accuse  you  of  stealing,  but  I  do 
seriously  question  your  coming  honestly  by  all  the 
money  you  spend." 

"  That  is  the  same  as  accusing  me  of  stealing  —  and 
I  will  make  you  prove  it.  'Tis  the  first  time  I  have 
ever  been  charged  with  dishonesty." 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  an  easy  matter  for  me  to  prove 
it,  should  it  be  necessary." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  hey  ?  " 

"To  be  plain  with  you,  Frank,  I  am  knowing  to  the 
fact  that  you  take  money  from  the  drawer." 

"  You're  a  liar,"  and  the  language  he  used  was  pro 
fane  in  the  extiome. 

•  "  I  will  convince  you  in  the  morning  that  what  I  say 
is  the  truth,  but  not  to-night." 

"  And  I  should  really  like  to  have  you." 

Nothing  more  was  said  Until  morning,  when  on  ris 
ing,  Francis  said  —  "Now  I  should  like  to  know  what 
you  meant  last  night,  when  you  accused  me  of  steal 
ing?" 

23 


266  GOOD   FOR  EVIL. 

Henry  took  the  piece  of  money  lie  had  found  on  the 
floor,  and  showing  it  to  his  companion,  said  — "  This 
is  what  I  took  of  a  woman  yesterday,  for  some  calico  — 
I  know  it  by  the  letters  R.  S.  which  you  see  are 
stamped  upon  it,  and  when  I  came  home  last  night, 
I  found  it  on  the  floor.  No  one  had  been  in  the  cham 
ber  but  yourself." 

Francis  colored  a  great  deal  when  this  evidence  was 
produced  against  him,  but  said,  in  a  subdued  tone  —  "I 
know  nothing  about  it ;  the  probability  is  that  you  stole 
it  from  the  drawer  yourself,  and  now,  for  fear  of  being 
detected,  wish  to  accuse  me." 

"  You  know  better,  Frank.  I  never  took  a  copper 
from  Mr.  Favor  in  my  life.  But  I  have  often  missed 
change  fr6m  the  drawer." 

"Without  saying  more  Francis  hurried!  down.  As 
Henry  reflected  on  what  had  been  said,  he  felt  grieved, 
but  hoped  this  detection  would  effectually  check  his 
friend  in  his  career.  As  soon  as  Mr.  Favor  came  to  the 
store  that  morning,  he  said  to  Henry,  "I  wish  you 
would  go  with  me."  He  followed  him  to  his  father's 
house.  Such  proceedings  were  unaccountable  to  the 
honest  boy ;  he  could  not  conceive  the  intention  of  his 
master. 

When  they  were  seated,  —  his,  father  and  mother  be 
ing  present,  —  Mr.  Favor  said,  "  I  have  come  to  dis 
charge  your  boy.  I  am  sorry  to  inform  you  that  I 
have  detected  him  in  theft,  which  I  never  suspected 
till  this  morning." 

The  poor  boy  burst  into  tears,  exclaiming,  "  It  is  not 
so !  It  is  not  so ! " 

"  0  my  son,  my  son !  "  said  his  mother,  "  how  could 


GOOD   FOB  EVIL.  267 

you  do  so  ?  I  never  thought  it  would  come  to  this ; 
it  will  be  the  ruin  of  us, all." 

"  Mother,  I  am  not  guilty,"  said  the  boy,  weeping 
still  more,  —  "I  am  not  guilty." 

"He  must  be  hardened,  indeed,"  said  his  master, 
"  to  lie  so  deliberately  aboutt  it.  There  is  no  manner 
of  doubt  of  his  guilt,  and  that,  from  time  to  time,  he 
has  taken  money  from  my  drawer." 

"  Sir,  I  never  took  a  cent  from  the  drawer  in  my 
life ;  you  are  deceived." 

"  Hush,  boy !  don't  add  sin  to  sin." 

"  "What  I  say  is  frue,"  he  added,  while  the  tears  were 
flowing  fast. 

His  parents  were  somewhat  encouraged  to  believe 
that  Mr.  Favor  was  mistaken,  for  they  never  knew 
their  son  to  be  guilty  of  uttering  a  falsehood,  but  the 
gentleman  immediately  said,  "  Yesterday  I  had  a  quar 
ter  of  a  dollar  in  my  drawer,  on  which  the  letters  R. 
S.  were  imprinted,  which  has  been  seen  in  the  posses 
sion  of  your  son." 

"  That  money  I  found  —  " 

"  Hold,  hold,"  said  Mr.  Favor,  "  don't  add  falsehood 
to  falsehood.  Now  I  propose  to  have  the  boy  searched ; 
if  the  money  is  found  on  his  person,  can  there  be  any 
doubt  of  his  guilt  ?  " 

"  Let  me  tell  —  " 

"  Not  a  word,"  said  Mr.  Favor,  "  till  we  get  through." 

"  This  will  be  the  death  of  me,"  said  his  mother,  as 
Henry  emptied  his  pockets. 

"  Here  is  the  money,"  exclaimed  his  master,  as  he 
held  up  the  twenty-five  cent  piece,  "  and  here  are  the 
very  letters,  R.  S.  I  never  expected  to  find  so  much 
deception  and  wickedness  in  that  boy.  But  there  is  no 


268  GOOD   FOB  EVIL. 

doubt  of  his  guilt.  I  thought  he  would  make  a  smart, 
active  man,  and  felt  interested*  in  him ;  but  now  I  can 
not  longer  keep  him.  I  will  not  have  a  thief  in  my 
store." 

"  My  son,  oh,  how  could  you  do  so  ? "  inquired  his 
mother.  "  There  is  no  affliction  so  great  as  to  have  a 
dishonest  son  in  the  family." 

"  If  you  will  hear  a  word,  mother,  I  will  explain  it. 
I  have  not  stolen  a  cent  from  Mr.  Favor.  It  was  Fran 
cis  who  took  that  money." 

"Oh,  the  depravity  of  his  heart!"  exclaimed  his 
master.  "He  now  is  endeavoring  to  accuse  another 
boy,  who  has  been  in  my  employ  some  two  or  three 
years,  and  against  whose  character  I  never  heard  a  lisp. 
I  am  indebted  to  him  for  the  information  which  led  to 
the  detection  of  your  son.  Had  he  been  given  to  dis 
honesty,  I'  might  have  been  ruined.  I  never  wish  to 
see  the  face  of  that  rogue  again,"  pointing  to  Henry. 
"I  know. he  will  come  to  a  bad  end,"  and  bidding  the 
family  "  good-morning,"  he  left  the  house. 

"What  shall  we  do?"  said  his  father.  "It  will  be 
whispered  all  over  town  that  Henry  is  a  thief ;  that  his 
employer  has  turned  him  away,  and  it  will  be  impossi 
ble  to  obtain  for  him  another  place." 

"  It  will  worry  me  to  death,"  said  his  mother.  "  How 
could  you  do  so,  Henry,  when  we  have  cautioned  you 
so  much,  and  ever  implanted  in  your  mind  virtuous 
principles  ?  How  could  you  be  guilty  of  stealing  ?  " 

Henry  told  his  parents  the  whole  truth  respecting  the 
affair;  what  he  had  seen  in  Francis,  the  conversa 
tions  he  had  had  with  him,  and  finally,  how  he  became 
the  possessor  of  the  piece  of  money.  They  believed 
him,  and  pressed  him  to  their  bosoms.  How  could 


GOOD   FOE  EVIL.  269 

they  do  otherwise  ?  They  knew  him  to  be  an  injured 
boy,  and  they  embraced  him  as  a  wronged  but  virtu 
ous  and  honest  child.  Mr.  Safford  went  directly  to  Mr. 
Favor,  and  explained  the  whole  matter,  but  not  a  word 
of  it  would  he  believe. 

"  Your  son  is  a  deceptive,  artful  boy,  that  you  may 
rely  upon,"  said  he ;  "  I  am  perfectly  satisfied  of  his 
guilt,  and  that  he-  is  endeavoring  to  screen  himself  by 
attempting  to  injure  the  character  of  Francis." 

"  But  time  will  determine  who  is  innocent  and  who  is 
guilty,"  said  the  father. 

"  Certainly ;  if  we  live  a  few  years,  I  should  not  be 
surprised  to  learn  that  your  son  had  found  his  way  to 
the  State  Prison." 

It  was  rumored  about  the  town  that  Henry  had  been 
turned  away  from  his  place  for  stealing;  and  while 
the  few  believed  his  story,  the  many  thought  him 
guilty.  Of  course,  it  injured  him  exceedingly,'  and  was 
a  source  of  much  pain  and  sorrow  to  the  honest  and 
virtuous  lad.  He  consoled  himself  with  the  reflection 
that  he  was  innocent,  and  at  some  future  day  his  inno 
cence  would  be  established. 

Among  those  who  believed  that  Henry  had  been  in 
jured,  was  a  Mr.  Jones,  who  frequently  observed  his 
attention  to  business  while  with  Mr.  Favor.  He  also 
kept  an  English  goods  store.  Meeting  Harry  one 
day  — 

"  My  good  fellow,"  said  he,  "  how  would  you  like  to 
enter  my  store  ?  " 

"  Very  much  indeed,  if  you  dare  to  take  me,  consid 
ering'  what  has  been  said." 

"  If  you  please,  you  may  come  to-morrow  morning." 
23* 


270  GOOD  FOR  EVIL. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  lad,  running  home  to  com 
municate  the  pleasing  intelligence. 

The  next  day  found  Harry  in  the  store  of  Mr.  Jones. 
His  new  master  being  a  pleasant  man,  and  feeling  inter 
ested  in  the  boy,  endeavored  to  make  his  situation 
agreeable.  Henry  did  his  best  to  give  satisfaction,  and 
labored  not  in  vain.  Occasionally,  Mr.  Favor  would 
come  into  the  store,  and,  without  speaking,  .would  give 
him  a  suspicious  look.  It  was  evident  that  he  believed 
him  guilty  of  the  charge  he  laid  to  him.  And  Francis 
passed  him  by  without  speaking  a  word.  But  he  knew 
the  innocence  of  Henry. 

A  few  years  passed  by,  and  Mr.  Jones  still  retained 
the  young  man  in  his  employ,  and  for  no  consideration 
would  he  part  with  him.  Pleasant  in  his  disposition, 
industrious  in  his  habits,  and  capable  in  his  business, 
his  employer  loved  him  as  a  son.  One  evening,  he  was 
invited  to  a  social  party,  where  he  found  among  the 
guests  Ellen  Favor,  the  daughter  of  his  former  master, 
who  went  in  company  with  Francis  Bradley.  Henry  was 
not  only  genteel  in  his  appearance,  but  was  really  hand 
some,  while  his  former  friend  was  directly  the  reverse. 
Ellen  noticed  that  the  ladies  were  partial  to  Henry,  and 
her  envious  disposition  was  aroused.  The  young  man 
happened  to  be  near  her  person,  while  she  was  convers 
ing  in  a  rather  loud  tone  with  one  of  her  female  acquaint 
ances.  "  Only  think,"  Henry  heard  her  say,  "  why,  only 
think,  it  is  the  very  individual  who  stole  from  my  father 
a  few  years  ago.  If  his  character  was  known,  I  guess 
but  very  few  would  wish  to  associate  with  him;  for 
my  part,  I  wont  speak  to  him,  or  even  notice  the  fel 
low;" 

It  is  true  Henry's  feelings  were  injured,  but  he  said 


GOOD  FOR  EVIL.  ..     271 

nothing,  and  endeavored  to  pass  the  evening  as  pleas 
antly  as  possible.  He  noticed  that  he  was  slighted 
by  one  or  two,  while  others  appeared  not  to  mind  what 
was  said  about  him.  He  felt  innocent  of  the  charge 
laid  to  him,  and  knew  there  was  one  present  who,  if 
he  had  his  just  deserts,  would  be  detected  as  the  thief. 

Francis  continued  to  be  flush  with  money.  His  com 
panions  were  of  that  class  who  think  nothing  of  spend 
ing,  providing  they  partake  of  a  momentary  enjoyment. 
He  would  often  ride  out  for  pleasure,  without  reflecting 
on  the  expense  incurred,  and  purchase  whatever  he  had 
an  inclination  to  buy.  Such  a  course  cannot  last  for  a 
great  length  of  time ;  the  older  a  person  grows,  his  ac 
quaintances  and  his  expenses  naturally  increase.  It 
was  so  with  Francis.  Still  his  employer  placed  implicit 
confidence  in  him ;  it  could  not  we.ll  be  otherwise,  for 
he  expected  at  some  future  day  to  claim  him  as  a  son- 
in-law. 

Henry  became  of  age,  and  the  story  of  his  supposed 
dishonesty  had  nearly  died  away  excepting  with  a  few 
who  were  envious  of  his  success,  his  personal  appear 
ance,  or  his  irreproachable  character.  They .  kept  it 
alive,  and  always  exerted  an  influence  prejudicial  to 
him.  None  were  more  active  in  their  slanders  than 
the  children  of  Mr.  Favor,  who  had  looked  up  to-  Fran 
cis  as  a  pattern  of  honor  and  integrity.  But  Henry 
had  given  them  no  occasion  to  censure  him ;  he  had  al 
ways  treated  them  with  respect.  It  was  his  disposition 
never  to  speak  against  another,  or  he  might  have  ru 
ined  young  Bradley.  Though  the  falsehood  spread  rap 
idly,  he  thought  the  truth  would  finally  come  out  and 
triumph  over  every  thing  false.  He  did  not  mistake. 


272     •  GOOD  FOR  EVIL. 

He  became  an  active  partner  with  Mr.  Jones,  and  pros 
pered  abundantly,  as  virtue  and  integrity  always  will. 

One  day,  a  little  boy  came  into  his  shop  and  left 
word  that  Mr.  Bradley  wished  to  see  Mr.  Safford  imme 
diately,  and  requested  that  he  might  call  at  the  house 
of  Mr.  Favor,  where  he  was  boarding.  It  was  a  singu 
lar  request,  but  Henry  resolved  to  go. 

As  he  entered  the  house,  he  understood  by  the  young 
woman  who  came  to  the  door,  that  Francis  was  very 
sick  —  that  it  was  apprehended  he  would  not  recover  — 
that  something  seemed  to  trouble  him  exceedingly  — 
and  that  he  said  he  could  find  no  peace  until  he  had 
seen  Henry.  As  he  entered  the  sick-chamber,  lie  ob 
served  Mr.  Favor  and  his  wife  and  their  daughter  Ellen 
in  the  room.  They  received  him  more  cordially  than 
he  anticipated. 

"  Henry,"  said  the  sick  man,  stretching  out  his  hand 
to  Safford,  "  Henry,  I  have  wronged  you  "  —  and  he 
wept.  "  In  the  presence  of  these  witnesses  I  acknowl 
edge  my  sin.  I  cannot  die  without  it.  Mr.  Favor,  I 
have  wrongfully  accused  this  young  man.  It  was  not 
he  who  took  that  money  from  you  seven  years  ago,  but 
it  was  myself.  I  am  the  guilty  person.  He  was  always 
honest  —  I  was  the  thief,"  and  he  sank  down,  ex 
hausted. 

The  family  were  thunderstruck.  "They  had  always 
looked  upon  young  Safford  as  a  thief  and  a  villain,  and 
had  circulated  the  story  of  his  dishonesty  far  and  wide. 
Now  to  have  it  contradicted  —  and  the  guilty  individ 
ual  to  be  the  person  they  had  cherished  and  nursed — 
on  whom  not  the  slightest  suspicion  of  evil  rested  — 
was  what  they  coulcl  hardly  comprehend.  They  were 


GOOD   FOR  EVIL.  273 

dumb  with  confusion.  They  saw  before  them  an  exam 
ple  of  suffering  virtue  —  a  meek  and  kind  heart,  which 
they  had  contributed  to  lacerate  and  goad  even  to  bleed 
ing —  and  the  author  of  the  crime  on  his  death-bed. 

Francis  raised  himself  again,  and  weeping,  asked, 
"  Will  you  forgive  me,  Henry  ?  Oh,  will  you  forgive 
me,  that  I  may  die  in  peace  ?  " 

"  With  all  my  heart  do  I  forgive  you,"  and  the  tears 
filled  the  eyes  of  the  noble-hearted  young  man. 

"And  will  you  forgive  me  the  injury  I  have  done 
you  ?  "  spoke  Mr.  Favor. 

"  Most  assuredly." 

"  And  me,  too  ?  "  said  his  wife. 

"  Certainly." 

"  And  me,  also  ? "  said  Ellen.  "  For  oh,  how  basely 
have  I  acted !  Will  you  forgive  me  ?  "  and  she  extended 
her  hand. 

Henry  grasped  it,  and  melted  to  tears  as  he  said, 
"  Most  heartily  do  I  forgive  you,  Ellen.  From  my  soul 
I  forgive  you  all."  And  the  family  stood  around  him 
weeping  like  children. 

When  Henry  left  they  followed  him  to  the  door,  en 
treating  him  to  call  the  next  day  without  fail,  which  he 
assured  them  he  should  be  happy  to  do. 

It  was  soon  noised  about  the  town  that  the  sin  that 
was  laid  to  the  charge  of  young  SafFord  years  before, 
was  committed  by  another.  Those  who  had  circulated 
the  report  to  his  injury,  and  shunned  his  society,  now 
came  forward  and  acknowledged  their  sin.  None  stood 
higher  in  the  estimation  of  the  people  than  Henry. 
His  virtues  were  everywhere  spoken  of. 

When  he  called  to  see  Bradley  the  next  day,  he  found 
him  very  feeble.  He  extended  his  hand  to  Henry,  ex- 


274  GOOD  FOR  EVIL. 

pressed  his  regret  for  the  course  he  had  pursued,  but 
was  too  feeble  to  say  much.  The  family  were  all  kind 
ness  to  Safford,  and  expressed  their  gratitude  to  him 
again  and  again. 

Every  day  he  called  to  see  Francis,  and  once  or 
twice  watched  by  him  during  the  night.  The  poor  fel 
low  died.  His  excesses  brought  him  to  an  early 
grave.  But  he  regretted  his  past  course,  and  if  a 
death-bed  repentance  can  atone  for  a  life  of  sin  and 
folly,  his  Creator  forgave  him.  He  died  at  peace  with 
the  world,  though  none  cherish  his  memory.  For  they 
cannot  look  back  upon  his  life  with  pleasure  or  profit, 
and  the  stain  he  inflicted  on  the  character  of  his  early 
associate  will  never  be  forgotten. 

Henry  followed  his  friend  to  the  narrow  house,  and 
manifested,  by  his  attention  to  him  in  his  sickness,  and 
in  the  last  sad  services  paid  to  mortality,  a  disposition 
which  accords  strictly  with  the  gospel  of  peace ;  but 
which  is  altogether  too  rare  in  this  selfish,  unforgiving 
world. 

Not  a  day  passed  that  Mr.  Favor  did  not  call  upon 
Henry.  He  told  him  repeatedly  if  there  was  any 
thing  he  'could  do  for  his  interest  or  happiness,  it 
should  be  done  with  pleasure.  "  I  should  be  happy," 
said  he,  "  to  have  you  connected  with  me  in  business ; " 
but  Henry  could  only  thank  him  for  his  kindness. 

Safford  became  a  constant  visitor  at  the  house  of  his 
friends,  who  seemed  never  to  be  tired  of  his  company. 
Ellen  was  particularly  attentive,  and  always  strove  to 
please  him.  No.ne  enjoyed  his  society  better  than  she ; 
but  her  parents  dared  not  flatter  themselves  that  he 
would  deign  to  connect  himself  with  the  family,  yet 
nothing  would  have  been  more  congenial  to  their  feel- 


GOOD   FOR  EVIL.  275 

ings.  But  Henry  was  really  attached  to  Ellen.  She 
had  materially  altered  for  the  better  since  the  death  of 
Bradley.  She  had  thrown  aside  her  foolish  airs ;  was 
pleasant  and  cheerful  in  her  conversation,  and  bid  fair 
to  make  a  useful  woman. 

Ellen  did  not  forget  the  manner  in  which  she  had 
treated  Henry  in  years  past,  and  the  influence  she  had 
exerted  against  him.  She  felt  ashamed  and  grieved  at 
her  conduct,  and  times  without  number  expressed  her 
regret  in  tears.  Now  she  labored  as  hard  to  counter 
act  her  past  influence,  and  thought  no  praise  too  ex 
travagant  to  bestow  upon  him. 

Many  months  did  not  elapse  before  Safford  was  mar 
ried,  and  Ellen  Favor  was  his  happy  bride.  Truer  and 
fonder  hearts  were  never  united.  The  past  served  as  a 
magnet  to  draw  them  closer  together.  The  father  and 
mother  of  Ellen  were  never  happier  than  on  the  day  of 
the  wedding  —  for  they  both  loved  Henry  as  they  would 
an  only  son. 

Safford  continued  to  prosper  in  his  business  ;  but  un 
like  many,  he  did  good  as  opportunities  presented. 
The  poor  and  distressed  were  relieved  by  him.  He  was 
devoted  to  the  cause  of  benevolence,  and  lived  not  so 
much  to  accumulate  property  and  enjoy  the  blessings 
of  life  himself,  as  to  add  to  the  sum  of  human  happi 
ness.  He  was  an  example  of  kindness,  benevolence, 
and  virtue,  and  no  one  was  ever  heard  to  lisp  a  word  to 
his  injury.  The  praise  of  men  and  the  blessing  of 
Heaven  continued  to  rest  upon  him,  and  his  example 
will  never  cease  to  exert  a  benign  influence,  till  time 
shall  be  no  more. 


THE  OLD  BOOKS. 


To  know  we've  dried  a  single  tear, 

And  made  one  moment  bright, 
Or  struck  a  feeble  spark  to  cheer 

The  darkest  hour  of  night 
Will  give  to  us  more  joy  at  last 

Than  Caesar's  triumphs  gave; 
The  memory  of  such  deeds  will  live 

In  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 

"  Do  you  buy  old,  second-hand  books  ?  "  inquired  a 
boy  of  Mr.  Letford,  the  bookseller. 

"  Not  very  often,"  was  the  reply.  "  Sometimes  we 
tako  schoolbooks  that  have  been  used  a  little  in  part 
pay  for  others." 

"  Can't  you  buy  these  books  of  me  ?  "  said  the  boy, 
placing  six  or  eight  volumes  on  the  counter. 

Mr.  Letford  took  one  up  to  examine,  saying — 
"  These  are  very  old  books,  and  I  could  never  sell 
them.  They  are  not  worth  two  cents  apiece  to  me." 

"  They  are  good  books.  Some  of  them  are  old  ser 
mons.  Perhaps  you  could  sell  them.  What  will  you 
give  me  for  them  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  them." 

"  I  must  have  a  little  money,  will  you  give  me  six 
pence  apiece  for  them  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  will  not  give  you  but  three  cents  apiece.  At 
that  price  you  may  leave  them,  or  take  them  somewhere 
else." 


THE  OLD   BOOKS.  277 

"  Where  would  I  be  likely  to  sell  them  ?  "  anxiously 
inquired  the  boy. 

"  The  best  place  would  be  to  put  them  in  the  auction- 
room.  Carry  them  down  to  Mr.  Bailey,  the  auctioneer, 
and  ask  him  to  sell  them.  You  can  get  more  than  I 
would  allow  you." 

"I  will  sea  Mr.  Bailey,  then,"  said  the  boy,  tying 
up  his  books  and  putting  them  under  his  arm,  "for 
I  fool  unwilling  to  sell  them  for  what  you  offer  me,  al 
though  I  want  the  money." 

Mr.  Letford  attended  to  his  business  and  thought  no 
more  of  the  lad,  till  about  two  or  three  weeks  after, 
when  the  same  boy  came  into  his  store  with  the  very 
books  he  carried  away. 

"  Sir,  I  have  not  yet  sold  my  books,"  said  the  boy. 
"I  carried  them  down  to  Mr.  Bailey,  and  requested 
him  to  soil  them  at  auction ;  but  he  said  they  would 
bring  little  or  nothing.  I  left  them,  telling  him  I  would 
call  again  in  a  short  time  and  get  my  pay,  if  he  could 
dispose  of  them.  To-day  I  called  and  was  handed  my 
books.  Mr.  Bailey  said  he  offered  them  for  sale,  but 
no  one  would  bid  over  two  cents  apiece,  and  he  Couldn't 
bt  them  go.  Now  I've  come  to  sell  them  to  you. 
Can't  you  give  me  over  three  cents  apiece  ?  " 

"  No ;  they  are  not  worth  more  than  that  to  me." 

"  Well,  take  them,  then." 

The  bookseller  counted  out  twenty-four  cents,  and 
handed  them  to  the  boy,  while  he  placed  the  old  vol- 
umos  under  the  counter. 

The  boy  appeared  pleased  with  his  money,  thanked 
the  gentleman  and  was  leaving  the  store  when  Mr. 
Lotford  asked  him,  "  My  lad,  what  is  your  name  ? " 

"  Charles  Merrill." 
24 


278  THE   OLD  BOOKS. 

"  Where  do  you  belong  ?  "       -.  ,  : 

"  In  North  Yarmouth." 

The.  boy. immediately  left  the  shop,  while  Mr.  Letford 
waited  upon  his  customers. 

Six  months  and  more  had  expired,  since  the  book 
seller  had  purchased  the  books  of  the  boy,  when  one 
day,  as  he  was  cleaning  up  his  shop,  his  eye  chanced 
to  meet  the  old  volumes.  Taking  one  up,  ho  found  it 
to  contain  sermons  printed  about  a  century  before. 
As  he  was  looking  over  the  pages  carelessly,  he  found 
concealed  between  two  of  the  leaves  a  ten  dollar  bill. 
On  examining  it,  he  discovered  that  it  was  a  genuine 
bill,  although  about  twenty-five  years  old.  Curiosity 
led  him  to  examine  the  book  more  closely,  when  to  his 
astonishment,  he  found  in  all  fifty  ten  dollar  bills  of 
the  same  bank,  making  in  all  five  hundred  dollars. 
The  other  volumes  were  searched  as  carefully,  but 
they  contained  nothing. 

"  Where  can  I  find  the  boy  of  whom  I  purchased 
these  books  ?  "  was  the  first  question  Mr.  Letford  put  to 
himself,  after  his  surprise  was  over.  He  recollected  the 
boy's  name  was  Merrill^  and  that  he  informed  him  he 
resided  in  North  Yarmouth.  That  very  day,  he  ad 
dressed  a  line  to  the  boy,  stating  he  had  something  of 
importance  to  communicate  to  him,  and  requesting  him 
to  come  immediately  to  Portland.  He  waited  a  week 
or  two,  but  received  no  answer.  The  first  opportunity 
he  took  a  chaise  and  rode  out  to  make  inquiries  re 
specting  the  youth.  After  spending  several  hours,  he 
learned  that  a  boy  by  that  name  lived  with  a  Mr. 
Mitchell  about  six  or  eight  months  before.  On  Mr. 
Mitchell  the  bookseller  immediately  called.  From  him 
he  learned  that  a  poor  boy  by  that  name  came  to 


THE  OLD  BOOKS.  279 

him  one  day  and  solicited  employment,  stating  that  he 
was  poor  and  destitute.  Out  of  pity,  Mr.  Mitckcll  em 
ployed  him  several  months,  when  the  boy  left,  stating 
that  he  intended  to  go  to  Readfiald,  or  Bangor,  and  study. 
Mr.  Mitchell  spoke  well  of  the  boy,  said  that  he  was 
industrious  and  pleasant,  and  spent  much  of  his  leisure 
time  in  reading.  He  could  not  remember  where  he 
was  born,  but  believed  that  Charles  was  an  orphan. 

Without  ascertaining  any  thing  more  particular  as  to 
the  whereabouts  of  the  boy,  Mr.  Letford  returned  to  the 
city.  The  next  day  he  addressed  a  couple  of  letters  to 
him ;  one  was  sent  to  Readfield,  the  other  to  Bangor. 
To  these  letters  he  never  received  any  answers.  The 
bookseller  deposited  the  money  in  the  bank,  and  made 
use  of  it,  as  occasion  required,  determining,  if  possible, 
to  find  out  where  the  boy  resided,  and  always  to  have 
at  his  command  the  amount  he  had  found.  If  Charles 
were  an  orphan,  perhaps  that  money  had  been  left  him 
by  his  parents,  but  he  being  young  when  they  died, 
knew  not  that  they  possessed  this  amount ;  or  it  might 
be  that  he  had  purchased  the  books  of  another,  or  that 
they  had  been  given  to  him.  At  any  rate,  Mr.  Letford 
hoped  the  time  would  come  when  the  mystery  would 
be  solved  and  the  money  be  given  to  its  rightful  owner. 

Year  after  year  passed  away;  and  although  Mr. 
Letford  had  made  numberless  inquiries,  he  could 
not  ascertain  any  thing  definite  respecting  the  youth 
of  whom  he  purchased  the  old  books.  About  ten 
or  a  dozen  years  had  gone  by,  and  the  bookseller 
had  almost  given  up  the  idea  of  ever  seeing  the  indi 
vidual,  when  one  summer  he  visited  Boston,  for  the 
purpose  of  purchasing  a  stock  of  books.  As  he  was 
conversing  with  a  wholesale  dealer  one  morning,  a  gen- 


280  THE  OLD  BOOKS. 

tleman  came  into  the  store,  with  whom  the  dealer  ap 
peared -to  be  intimately  acquainted.  He  introduced 

him  to  Mr.  Letford  as  the  Rev.  Mr.  Merrill,  of  A . 

After  a  short  conversation,  the  minister  inquired  if  he 
were  not  the  Mr.  Letford  who  formerly  traded  in  Port 
land. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  still  trade  there." 

"  Do  you  remember  a  little  boy  selling  you  some  old 
books  about  a  dozen  years  ago  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  well." 

"1  am  that  boy." 

"  Indeed !  you  astonish  me.  I  have  made  more  inqui 
ries  than  a  few,  and  have  never  been  able  to  learn  what 
became  of  him." 

"  Soon  after  I  sold  you  the  books,  I  went  to  the  east 
ward,  with  the  intention,  if  possible,  to  attend  school. 
The  money  that  I  obtained  for  those  books  was  all  I 
had  to  defray  my  expenses.  Taking  my  bundle  in  my 
hand,  I  started.  In  a  few  days  Providence  provided 
me  a  friend,  who  took  me  to  his  house,  gave  me  school 
ing,  and  prepared  me  for  college.  I  graduated  at  Dart 
mouth,  and  for  the  last  year  I  have  been  pastor  of  a 
church  in  this  state." 

"  I  am  really  glad,  sir,  I  have  met  you  at  last !  Do 
you  remember  what  books  you  sold  me  so  long  since  ?  " 

"I  do  not  —  only  that  some  of  them  were  volumes 
of  sermons.     They  were  books  that  belonged  to  my 
father.     When  he  died,  they  came  into  my  possession. ' 
Was  there  any  thing  remarkable  about  the  works  ?  " 

"  About  six  months  after  I  purchased  them,  I  took 
one  volume  up  to  examine,  and  folded  between  tho 
leaves,  I  found  fifty  ten  dollar  bills." 

"  You  astonish  me." 


THE   OLD  BOOKS.  281 

"  These  bills  must  have  been  placed  there  by  youi 
father." 

"  It  was  said  that  he  had  money  by  him  when  he 
died,  but  we  never  could  find  any." 

"  That  money,  Mr.  Merrill,  has  been  kept  at  interest 
most  of  the  time  since  I  found  it,  and  now  I  am  in 
debted  to  you  to  the  amount  of  something  like  eight 
hundred  dollars,  which  I  will  forward  to  you  as  soon  as 
I  go  to  Portland." 

"  Sir,  I  cannot  consent  to  take  that  amount.  That 
the  money  rightfully  belonged  to  me,  I  have  no  ques 
tion,  but  I  shall  insist  on  your  keeping  at  least  one-half 
the  amount." 

"  On  no  consideration  will  I  take  it.  I  presume  you 
are  in  debt  for  your  education." 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  owe  several  hundred  dollars." 

"  You  will  now  be  able  to  square  up,  and  have  some 
thing  left." 

Mr.  Merrill  thanked  his  friend  in  tears,  and  pressed 
him,  but  in  vain,  to  keep  a  portion  of  the  money  for 
his  own  use. 

In  a  few  days  Mr.  Letford  returned  to  Portland,  and 
the  first  thing  he  did  was  to  return  to  Mr.  Merrill  the 
money  which  he  had  kept  so  long  in  his  possession. 
The  amount  exceeded  eight  hundred  dollars,  every  cent 
of  which  he  gave  to  the  rightful  owner  —  feeling  a  sat 
isfaction  and  pleasure  in  so  doing,  which  a  mean,  dis 
honest  man  could  never  appreciate. 

In  a  few  months  after,  the  pastor  left  his  congregation 
for  a  few  weeks  to  visit  some  of  his  eastern  friends,  and 
for  several  days,  he  stopped  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Let- 
ford  ;  an  acquaintance  had  been  formed  which  could 
not  be  easily  broken. 
24* 


282  THE  OLD  BOOKS. 

Had  we  not  read  the  following  in  the  newspapers 
some  years  since,  perhaps  this  story  would  never  have 
been  given  to  the  world :  — 

*-*  Married,  in  Portland,  by  Rev.  Mr.  Dwight,  Rev. 
Charles  Merrill  of  A ,  Mass.,  to  Miss  Eliza,  daugh 
ter  of  Mr.  James  Letford." 


THE  WOOD-SAWER. 


Oh,  harbor  not  a  base-horn  thought  — 

Win  grace  to  make  you  strong, 
That  every  virtuous  act  performed 

Bring  holy  fruit  along. 

"  I  KNOW  my  business  is  not  looked  upon  by  the  ma 
jority  as  so  respectable  as  a  trade,  a  clerkship,  or  a  pro 
fession  ;  but  you  know  I  was  not  put  to  a  trade,  and  have 
always  been  obliged  to  work  at  any  thing  I  could  find  to 
do,  to  help  support  my  mother." 

"  But  you  might  find  something  else  to  do  besides 
sawing  \vood." 

"  What  can  I  do  at  present  that  would  be  as  profita 
ble  ?  I  have  always  told  you  that  I  did  not  intend  to  fol 
low  this  business  through  life.  Just  as  soon  as  I  earn 
money  sufficient,  I  shall  engage  in  something  else. 
Once  you  didn't  feel  arid  talk  as  you  do  now." 
.  "  As  I  grow  older,  and  associate  more  with  young  wo 
men,  I  perceive,  by  their  actions  and  language,  that  they 
do  not  respect  young  men  who  dress  meanly,  and  are  en 
gaged  in  low  employments." 

"  Why  should  you  mind  what  they  do  or  say  ?  My 
business,  if  it  is  low,  is  an  honorable  one,  and  I  earn 
every  dollar  I  receive.  I  owe  nothipg.  But  the  same 
cannot  be  said  of  many  of  those  young  men  who  dress 
extravagantly,  display  gold  rings  and  chains,  and  spend 


284  THE  WOOD-SAWER. 

so  much  time  and  money  in  riding  and  other  amuse 
ments." 

"  I  don't  know  how  that  is,  but  they  appear  to  get 
along  well,  and  always  have  money  to  spend." 

"  Appearances  are  very  deceitful.  You  cannot  tell 
how  rmjch  grief  it  has  caused  mo  to  see  the  change  that 
has  been  wrought  in  you  the  last  few  months.  You  do 
not  meet  me  with  your  accustomed  smiles,  and  often 
seem  indifferent  when  I  call  upon  you.  Is  it  solely  on 
account  of  what  other  girls  —  and  very  foolish  girls,  too 
—  say,  that  you  thus  appear  ?  " 

"  I  confess  I  do  not  like  your  business,  and  since  I 
have  grown  older  and  heard  so  much  said,  my  mind  has 
changed  materially." 

William  Nelson  was  the  son  of  a  poor  woman.  From 
early  life  he  was  accustomed  to  work  and  earn  whatever 
he  could  to  support  his  parent.  He  would  run  of  er 
rands  for  the  neighbors,  bring  water,  wheel  stones,  or 
do  any  thing  that  would  bring  him  a  penny.  Every 
Wednesday  and  Saturday  afternoon,  before  he  went  to 
play,  he  would  take  his  basket  and  run  down  on  Long 
Wharf,  or  Portland  Pier,  where  men  were  stubbing 
boards,  and  load  it  with  chips  for  his  mother.  William 
was  always  industrious,  both  at  home  and  at  school. 
Master  Patten  often  said  he  was  one  of  his  best  scholars. 

When  young  Nelson  was  fourteen  years  old,  he  left 
his  school  and  exerted  himself  to  get  employment,  so  as 
to  be  of  some  assistance  to  his  widowed  parent,  and  often 
found  employment  by  the  day,  working  hard  for  fifty 
cents.  When  he  became  a  little  older  and  a  little  stouter, 
he  bought  him  a  horse  and  saw,  and  undertook  the  bus 
iness  of  sawing  wood.  He  went  round  among  his  neigh 
bors  and  solicited  their  work,  most  of  whom  employed 


THE  WOOD-SAWER.  285 

him.  There  were  two  or  three,  however,  who  depended 
upon  Sam  Freeman,  a  singular  character,  who  made  it 
his  business  to  saw  wood  about  town,  never  receiving 
any  pay  for  his  services. 

The  next-door  neighbor  of  Mrs.  Nelson  was  a  Mr. 
Richards,  by  whom  William  had  been  often  employed. 
He  not  only  sawed  his  wood,  but  brought  home  his  flour, 
provisions,  etc.,  and  the  whole  family  appeared  to  be  at 
tached  to  the  widow's  son,  none  more  so  than  his  young 
daughter,  Sarah.  For  years  she  had  been  accustomed 
to  give  him  a  slice  of  pie,  a  bit  of  cake,  or  an  apple, 
whenever  he  went  into  the  house,  and  she  really  ap 
peared  to  be  attached  to  the  poor  boy.  It  was  certain 
William  loved  her,  for  many  an  evening  has  he  em 
ployed  himself  in  painting  pictures  or  making  boxes  for 
little  Sarah. 

As  William  and  Sarah  grew  older,  their  attachment 
for  each  other  increased  ;  he  not  thinking  of  his  poverty, 
his  patched  jacket,  or  his  low  employment,  and  &he  not 
dreaming  that  show  and  parade  make  the  man,  that  dress 
and  fashion  influence  the  heart,  or  that  honest  industry 
and  poverty  are  a  disgrace.  But  as  Sarah  mingled 
more  in  society,  and  understood  the  manners  and  cus 
toms  of  the  fashionable  world,  she  began  to  look  with 
more  indifference  upon  the  wood-sawer ;  but  still  she 
treated  him  kindly,  and  really  seemed  to  be  strongly  at 
tached  to  him.  William  was  a  likely  boy,  and  given  to 
no  bad  habits,  he  had  treasured  in  his  mind  a  fund  of 
knowledge,  gleaned  from  useful  works  which  he  had 
perused  during  his  leisure  time. 

Nelson  had  become  of  age  and  was  still  attached  to 
his  early  friend,  but  any  one  could  observe  that  although 
Sarah  loved  him,  she  wished  to  give  out  the  impression 


286  THE  WOOD-SAWEB. 

that  such  was  not  the  case.  Many  of  her  female  com 
panions  would  sneer  at  her,  throwing  out  some  un 
pleasant  remark  about  the  wood-sawer,  while  they 
were  gallanted  about  by  the  gay  and  the  fashionable. 
Whatever  was  said,  Sarah  never  lisped  a  word  against 
her  humble  friend.  She  knew  that  he  was  good,  and 
she  often  contrasted  the  language  that  fell  from  his  lips 
with  the  conversation  of  other  young  men  of  her  ac 
quaintance,  and  she  was  struck  with  the  difference. 
He  was  sensible,  and  his  language  good  and  solid. 
They  spoke  the  common  topics  of  the  day,  and  criticised 
the  dress  and  manners  of  others.  On  one  occasion, 
when  Sarah  was  in  conversation  with  a  neighbor  of  his, 
Jane  Waters,  the  latter  remarked, — 

"  I  do  not  conceive  how  you  can  speak  to  that  wood- 
sawer.  He  appears  to  be  a  low-bred  fellow." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Jane  ?  " 

"  Mean  ?  Why,  Nelson  associates  with  the  low  and 
vulgar.  His  business,  you  know,  brings  him  in  contact 
with  a  certain  class  that  are  not  thought  much  of  by 
people  in  general.  I  am  surprised  that-  a  girl  of  your 
taste  should  have  any  thing  to  say  to  him." 

"Jane,  you  surprise  me.  I  know  of  no  better- 
hearted  young  man  of  my  acquaintance  than  William. 
I  have  known  him,  as  you  are  aware,  from  childhood, 
and  I  never  saw  a  mean  action  in  him,  or  heard  him 
utter  an  angry  word.  I  know  he  is  not  as  fashionable 
as  many  other  young  men,  but  his  business  will  not 
permit  him  to  be." 

"  Would  you  marry  a  wood-sawer  ?  "  said  Jane,  laugh 
ing  heartily —  "now  tell  me,  Sarah,  would  you  marry 
a  wood-sawer?  I  know  you  would  have  too  much 


THE  WOOD-SAWER.  287 

sense,  and  more  respect  for  your  friends  than  to  think 
of  it." 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  should  be  tempted  to  do,  if  I 
had  the  offer." 

"  You  know  you  would  not  disgrace  your  family  and 
friends  so  much." 

"  There  is  no  disgrace  in  marrying  an  honest  man,  in 
my  way  of  thinking.  Let  me  ask  you  a  question :  would 
you  marry  a  simple-headed  fop  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  that  as  an  insult  to  me,  Sarah  ?  " 

"Not  at  all." 

"  I  would  marry  a  gentleman  —  one  who  had  sense 
enough  to  keep  himself  decent,  and  pride  enough  to 
keep  himself  clean  and  tidy." 

"  Well,  if  you  ever  marry,  it  is  my  wish  that  you  may 
get  a  good  husband ;  but  from  what  I  know  of  you,  I 
fear  you  will  be  terribly  deceived.  I  would  rather 
have  a  man  with  a  good  mind  and  correct  habits,  with 
but  one  shirt  to  his  back,  than  a  person  with  fine  exte 
rior  and  plenty  of  money,  possessing  a  base  heart." 

"  You  talk  like  a  simpleton,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  and 
we'll  drop  the  subject  now,"  said  Jane  coloring,  as  if  in 
passion. 

"  I  wish  to  say  to  you,  Jane,  that  I  did  not  introduce 
the  subject,  and  shall  not  got  angry,  whatever  you 
may  say  against  William.  Although  you  have  been 
waited  upon  by  one  whose  conduct  and  manners  I  am 
displeased  with,  you  cannot  accuse  me  of  treating  him 
but  with  the  utmost  kindness.  You  have  not  thus  been 
kind  to  young  Nelson ;  he  has  seen  it,  and  so  have  I ; 
but  neither  of  us  has  complained." 

"  Well,  I  cannot  treat  him  with  respect.  He  is  alto 
gether  too  low  for  me  to  associate  with." 


288  THE  WOOD-SAWEB. 

"  You  may  feel  so,  but  I  do  not.  Time,  perhaps, 
may  yet  teach  us  some  severe  lessons.  As  I  have  often 
said  to  you,  I  prefer  a  kind  and  good  heart,  that  I 
have  known  and  tried,  though  dressed  in  rags,  to  a 
fashionable  and  foppish  person  I  know  but  little  about." 

"Every  one  to  her  liking,"  said  the  scornful  Miss 
Waters,  tossing  her  proud  head,  and  turning  up  her 
nose. 

A  day  or  two  elapsed  after  this  conversation,  when 
another  female  friend  called  upon  Sarah,  and  spoke 
in  like  terms  of  William.  The  same  day,  meeting  one 
or  two  others,  they  expressed  themselves  in  a  sim 
ilar  manner.  Who  could  wonder,  then,  that  Miss  Rich 
ards  was  depressed  in  spirits,  and  that  she  used  the  lan 
guage  at  the  commencement  of  our  story,  the  next 
time  she  saw  William  ?  Poor  fellow,  he  was  sad  indeed, 
and  hardly  knew  what  course  to  pursue.  For  a  long 
time  he  had  received  ill-treatment  from  the  friends 
of  Sarah,  and  unpleasant  epithets  had  been  heaped 
upon  him,  as  he  passed  along ;  but  he  murmured  not, 
still  pursuing  the  even  tenor  of  his  ways. 

The  next  time  Nelson  called  upon  Sarah,  she  ap 
peared  more  depressed  than  he  had  ever  seen  her. 
On  inquiry  why  she  was  thus  cast  down,  she  replied, 
"  Ever  since  you  were  last  here,  I  have  been  thinking  of 
what  I  said  to  you,  and  have  condemned  myself  times 
without  number.  I  had  been  spoken  to  by  a  number 
of  my  young  companions,  and  what  they  said  induced 
me  to  talk  in  the  manner  I  did.  I  shall  not  heed  them 
again,  whatever  they  may  say." 

"  I  have  been  no  less  grieved  than  yourself.  I  knew 
something  had  been  said,  but  by  whom,  I  knew  not." 

"  Be  assured,  William,  that  I  will  not  again  wound 


THE  WOOD-SAWER.  289 

your  feelings.  We  have  been  intimate  from  childhood, 
and  never  before,  I  believe,  has  a  word  passed  between 
us  that  caused  the  least  painful  emotion,  and  this  shall 
be  the  last." 

Jane  Waters  and  her  lover  were  invited  to  a  social 
party  at  the  house  of  Sarah.  John  Elkins  scarcely 
noticed  William,  and  took  occasion  to  show  off  his  wit 
at  the  expense  of  Nelson,  and  the  merriment  of  Jane, 
and  one  or  two  kindred  spirits.  Occasionally,  you 
would  hear  "  wood-sawer "  spoken  loud  enough  for 
the  company  to  hear ;  but  William  had  good  sense 
enough  to  heed  it  not.  He  treated  them  all  with  that 
respect  which  is  due  from  one  person  to  another.  Just 
before  the  company  dispersed,  Elkins,  Jane's  beau,  re 
marked  to  Nelson,  loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  all,  — 

"  We  have  a  load  of  wood  at  our  store  to  saw,  and 
we  should  like  to  have  you  come  up  to-morrow  and  saw 
it." 

"  Very  well,  sir,  I  will  come  with  pleasure,"  remarked 
William ;  "  I  am  always  glad  of  a  job." 

"  I  suppose  you  wont  charge  more  than  old  Jameson, 
or  Boze,  the  negro  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  sir ;  I  always  charge  moderate.  I  find  it  is 
more  advantageous.  I'm  much  obliged  to  you  for  the 
job." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  company  had  retired,  when 
Sarah  remarked  to  William,  "  I  was  astonished  at  the 
impudence  of  Elkins,  but  more  so  to  see  how  calmly  you 
bore  it." 

"  Never  mind ;  John  has  a  lesson  yet  to  learn  in  life, 
and  the  day  may  come  when  he  will  bitterly  regret  his 
course.  He  is  not  worth  minding." 

On  the  morning  of  the  next  day,  William  went  early 
25 


290,  THE  WOOD-SAWER. 

to  the  store  of  Mr.  Fosdic,  the  gentleman  with  whom 
Elkins  was  clerk,  sawed  the  wood,  and  received  his 
pay.  He  observed,  however,  as  he  occasionally  saw 
John  and  the  other  clerk,  that  no  little  sport  was  made 
of  him,  all  of  which  he  bore  with  a  magnanimous  spirit. 

In  process  of  time,  Sarah  Richards  became  the  wife 
of  William  Nelson,  and  Jane  Waters  the  wife  of  John 
Elkins.  Sarah's  was  a  simple  wedding,  with  a  few 
friends  to  witness  the  ceremony ;  and  she  commenced 
housekeeping  in  a  small  dwelling  with  but  little  furni 
ture,  which  her  husband  had  bought,  having  laid  by 
enough  in  a  few  years  from  his  laborious  business.  But 
Jane  made  a  great  display  on  her  wedding-day,  and 
hired  a  large  tenement,  and  had  it  filled  with  the  best 
of  furniture. 

What  changes  a  few  years  produce  !  As  the  wheels  of 
time  roll  on,  the  poor  of  to-day  become  the  rich  of  to-mor 
row,  and  the  most  wealthy  end  their  days  in  poverty  and 
rags.  None  can  fathom  the  future ;  none  can  lift  the 
veil  and  penetrate  the  secret  recesses.  Elkins,  the  hus 
band  of  Jane,  was  set  up  in  business  by  his  father.  He 
occupied  one  of  the  best  dry-goods  stands  in  Middle 
Street,  and  for  a  while  had  a  large  run  of  business. 
But  he  became  inattentive  to  his  affairs,  and  spent  a 
large  portion  of  his  time  away  from  his  store.  It  was 
said  he  gambled,  and  one  or  two  of  his  friends  had  seen 
him  disguised  by  liquor.  Pursuing  such  a  course,  he 
could  not  long  sustain  himself,  and  was  obliged  to  fail. 
In  settling  his  affairs,  it  was  found  that  he  did  not  pos 
sess  half  enough  to  cancel  his  debts.  Out  of  employ 
ment  for  several  months,  he  might  be  seen  hanging 
round  the  grogeries,  till  at  last  he  removed  into  the 
country,  his  father  purchasing  for  him  a  small  farm. 


THE  WOOD-SAWER.  291 

Nelson  prospered.  By  diligence  and  prudence,  after 
a  few  years,  he  gave  up  sawing  wood  and  entered  into 
business  more  congenial  to  his  taste.  By  strict  atten 
tion  to  his  concerns,  he  gradually  accumulated  prop 
erty,  and  was  considered  one  of  the  first  merchants  in 
Portland.  In  his  prosperity  he  did  not  forget  that  he 
was  once  poor.  The  saw  and  horse  that  he  used  so 
many  years,  were  placed  in  a  chamber  of  his  house, 
that  if  ever  he  should -grow  proud  and  treat  others 
with  unkindness,  he  might  take  a  look  at  them  and  re 
member  what  he  once  was.  No  money  would  have 
tempted  him  to  part  with  them. 

Mr.  Nelson  had  been  in  mercantile  business  for  more 
than  a  dozen  years,  and  during  that  time  had  not 
heard  a  word  respecting  Elkins.  One  morning,  on  tak 
ing  up  the  Advertiser  he  read  a  paragraph,  stating  that 
one  John  Elkins  had  committed  some  crime  in  North 
Yarmouth,  and  was  brought  to  the  city,  and  committed 
to  jail  to  await  his  trial.  "  That  must  be  my  old  ac 
quaintance,"  said  Nelson  ;  "I  will  call  to  see  him." 

In  a  few  days,  Mr.  Nelson  went  up  to  the  jail,  and 
entered  the  cell  of  Elkins.  But  he  was  so  altered  that 
he  hardly  knew  him.  The  marks  of  intemperance 
were  prominent  on  his  face  and  in  his  tattered  dress. 
Without  making  himself  known,  Nelson  said, — 

"  Sir,  I  have  called  to  see  some  of  the  prisoners,  and 
I  have  brought  you  a  few  things  which,  perhaps,  may 
be  acceptable." 

"  I  thank  you  for  your  kindness,"  said  the  prisoner. 
Nelson  made  but  little  conversation,  and  was  about  to 
leave,  when  the  prisoner  remarked,  — 

"Do  not  leave  yet,  sir.     I  have  been  here  several 


292  THE  WOOD-SAWEB. 

days,  and  you  are  the  first  person  I  have  seen,  except- 
ing  the  jailor  and  one  or  two  prisoners." 

"  You  appear  to  have  suffered  a  great  deal  in  your 
lifetime,  if  I  may  judge  from  your  appearance." 

"  Ah,  sir,  I  have,  I  have !  and  a  great  deal  of  it  is 
owing  to  intemperance  and  gambling.  In  early  life  my 
prospects  were  bright,  but  I  ruined  myself  by  bad  asso 
ciates." 

"  Have  you  no  friends  living  ?  " 

"  Very  few,  sir ;  my  parents  have  been  dead  several 
years." 

"  You  have  a  family,  I  presume." 

"  I  had  once,  but  where  they  now  are  I  cannot  tell. 
My  wife  left  me  on  account  of  my  habits,  and  it  is  more 
than  two  years  since  I  have  seen  her.  I  understood 
that  sho  was  living  with  a  friend  of  hers  in  Biddeford. 
0  sir !  I  never  thought  I  should  come  to  this ; "  and 
the  poor  man  put  his  hands  to  his  face  and  wept. 
After  a  moment  he  continued,  "  If  there  was  any  hope 
for  me,  I  know  I  should  be  a  different  man ;  but  no,  I 
am  too  old  in  sin  —  too  degraded.  I  have  no  friends." 

"  It  is  never  too  late,  my  friend,  to  reform,"  said  Nel 
son.  "  When  you  again  have  your  liberty,  if  you  are 
really  determined  to  be  a  different  man,  you  can  yet  be 
happy." 

"  Sir,  who  would  employ  a  person  of  such  habits  as 
mine  have  been  ?  " 

"  I  would  employ  you  if  I  were  convinced  of  your 
reformation." 

"  Are  you  in  earnest,  sir  ?  " 

"  Most  assuredly." 

"  I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart ; "  and  a  beam  of  hope 
lit  up  the  countenance  of  the  man,  as  if  he  had  never 


THE  WOOD-SAWER.  293 

before  heard  the  words  of  kindness.  "  This  seems  like  a 
dream.  Degraded,  ragged,  friendless  as  I  be,  you  have 
promised  me  employment,  should  I  live  to  enjoy  my  lib 
erty  again." 

"  Upon  this  condition,  you  know,  that  you  will  be 
steady,  and  do  your  best  to  respect  yourself." 

"  I  will  with  all  my  soul ;  and  I  feel  more  than  I 
can  express  the  kindness  you  have  shown  me." 

"  Have  you  any  acquaintances  in  the  city  ?  "  inquired 
Mr.  Nelson. 

"  Not  any  now.  I  used  to  be  acquainted  with  a  great 
many,  but  what  has  become  of  them  I  do  not  know.  It 
is  more  than  fifteen  years  since  I  was  in  the  city. 
There  is  one  man  —  I  always  thought  I  should  like  to 
know  what  became  of  him." 

"  And  who  was  he  ?  " 

"  His  name  was  William  Nelson,  and  he  used  to  saw 
wood  some  twenty  years  ago." 

"  Why  do  you  feel  a  more  particular  interest  in 
him  ? " 

"  I'll  tell  you  why,  although  I  feel  ashamed  of  myself, 
and  have  repented  of  what  I  did  times  without  number. 
He  was  a  fine  young  man,  of  an  excellent  disposition, 
but  poor,  and  was  obliged  to  saw  wood.  I  ridiculed 
him  in  company  and  before  others.  He  bore  it  all 
without  a  harsh  word  or  a  single  retort.  Would  to 
Heaven  I  had  possessed  a  spark  of  his  excellent  dispo 
sition.  I'd  give  worlds  to  see  him,  and  ask  his  for-, 
giveness  on  my  knees.  Had  I  treated  him  well  I 
should  not  have  suffered  half  what  I  have  gone  through. 
It  has  always  troubled  me." 

"  I  know  that  man." 
25* 


294  THE  WOOD-SAWER. 

"You  do?  Pray,  tell  me  something  about  him. 
Has  he  prospered  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  He  gave  up  sawing  wood  some  years  ago, 
and  is  now  engaged  in  mercantile  business." 

"  If  I  thought  he  would  speak  to  me,  and  think  it  no 
disgrace  to  him,  I  would  send  him  word  to  come  and 
ses  me.  Nothing  would  give  me  so  much  pleasure  as 
to  ask  his  forgiveness." 

"  He  would  grant  it,  I  know." 

"  Do  you  think  so,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  know  so.  And  if  he  knew  you  had  reformed,  you 
would  nowhere  find  so  true  a  friend." 

"  I  am  more  and  more  anxious  to  see  him.  Shall  I 
trouble  you  to  ask  him  to  call  and  see  a  degraded  be- 
ing?"  ' 

"  Mr.  Elkins,  you  shall  see  your  old  friend,  Mr.  Nel 
son.  He  is  here  now ;  it  is  he  who  has  been  conversing 
with  you.  I  am  the  wood-sawer  !  " 

"  Good  heavens !  "  and  the  degraded  being  fell  upon 
his  knees  and  wept  aloud. 

In  a  few  moments  he  recovered  himself,  and  in  broken 
words,  and  with  streaming  tears  asked  forgiveness  of 
Nelson,  which  was  readily  granted. 

After  remaining  with  Elkins  two  or  three  hours,  Mr. 
Nelson  left  the  cell,  rejoicing  that  his  friend  had  come 
to  his  senses  at  last,  and  devising  a  plan  for  his  release 
and  future  welfare. 

The  crime  that  Elkins  had  committed  was  a  trifling 
theft,  while  under  the  influence  of  ardent  spirits.  On 
the  day  of  his  trial  no  one  appeared  against  him,  and 
he  was  discharged.  ,  Nelson  immediately  took  him  to 
his  house,  gave  him  a  new  suit  of  clothes,  and  employed 
him  in  his  store.  Poor  Elkins'  heart  was  filled  with 


THE  WOOD-SAWER.  295 

gratitude  to  his  benefactor,  and  he  exerted  himself  to 
the  utmost  to  please  him. 

Elkins  had  been  in  the  store  of  Mr.  Nelson  some 
twelve  or  fourteen  months,  and  conducted  himself  with 
the  utmost  propriety,  when,  by  the  arrangement  of  his 
friend,  his  wile  was  reconciled  to  him,  and  came  to  the 
city  to  reside  with  her  husband. 

Now  they  are  happy.  The  past  is  forgotten,  or  re 
membered  only  to  bless  Heaven  for  the  great  change 
that  has  been  wrought.  Few  that  see  Elkins  day  by 
day  know  the  sorrow  that  he  endured,  or  feel  the  joy 
that  continually  thrills  his  happy  bosom. 


THE  CLAY  COVE  MECHANIC. 


The  sunshine  of  kindness, 

More  precious  than  gold, 
Has  thousands  directed 

To  virtue's  sweet  fold. 

"Do  you  think  I  would  have  any  thing  to  say  to  young 
Clinton  ?  He  must  know  I  do  not  wish  to  see  him,  and 
yet  he  persists  in  calling  at  the  house." 

"  But  Charles  is  a  fine  young  man.  He  has  an  ex 
cellent  disposition.  You  have  noticed  his  kind  feelings 
and  generous  character.  And  there  are  no  bad  traits 
about  him.  Why,  I  am  surprised  to  hear  you  talk  so." 

"  Charles  is  well  enough  in  his  way ;  but  you  know 
his  father  and  mother ;  they  still  live  in  that  wretched 
old  shell  in  Clay  Cove,  and  haven't  decent  furniture. 
I  should  be  ashamed  to  call  there." 

"  I  know  his  parents  are  very  poor,  and  that  his  father 
has  been  a  drinking  man.  But  he  has  joined  the  tem 
perance  society,  and  I  understand  he  provides  better 
for  his  family,  and  is  striving  to  obtain  a  good  living." 

"  That  may  be  true,  but  I  can  never  forget  old  Clin 
ton,  even  though  he  ha»  reformed.  He  has  always  be 
longed  to  the  lower  classes." 

"  But  I'm  sure  Charles  behaves  like  a  gentleman.  If 
his  parents  are  poor  and  wretched,  he  should  not  be 
treated  unkindly,  provided  he  behaves  well  and  sus 
tains  a  good  character." 


THE  CLAY  COVE  MECHANIC.          297 

"  True  ;  but  ho  has  got  nothing,  is  only  a  mechanic, 
and  will  always  have  to  work  for  a  living." 

"  Only  a  mechanic,  you  say.  But  what  was  your 
father  and  my  father  ?  " 

"  But  they  worked  only  a  little  themselves,  and  em 
ployed  others.  Now  they  are  independent.  No  matter 
what  our  fathers  were.  Time  has  changed.  I  shall 
have  nothing  further  to  say  to  Clinton.  If  he  calls  at 
the  house,  I  shall  contrive  to  be  busy  up-stairs.  You 
may  see  him  and  talk  with  him  as  much  as  you  like, 
but  I  wont." 

"  You  talk  foolishly,  especially  as  Charles  is  as  likely 
a  young  man  as  we  have  in  our  neighborhood." 

"  Every  one  to  her  liking,"  said  the  girl,  as  she  left  the 
room. 

Clara  and  Mary  Edwards  were  cousins,  and  about 
tha  same  age.  The  former  had  been  brought  up  with 
false  notions.  Her  standard  of  respectability  was  a  fine 
exterior,  graceful  manners,  and  a  heavy  purse.  She 
had  often  declared  in  the  presence  of  her  cousin,  that 
she  would  never  associate  with  a  mechanic,  more  espe 
cially  if  he  sprang  from  a  poor  family.  But  Mary  had 
different  views.  She  respected  all  men,  whether  dressed 
in  broadcloth  or  homespun,  and  was  as  particular  in  her 
attentions  to  the  day  laborer  of  good  character  as  to  the 
individual  who  prided  himself  on  his  birth,  wealth,  and 
education. 

Charles  Clinton  was  the  son  of  a  poor  sailmaker. 
His  father  had  been  in  low  circumstances  for  many 
years,  brought  on  by  his  intemperate  habits,  and  he 
could  barely  earn  sufficient  to  keep  his  family  together. 
His  mother  was  a  prudent  and  industrious  woman,  and 
it  was  mainly  owing  to  her  exertions  that  they  had 


298          THE  CLAY  COVE  MECHANIC. 

kept  together  for  so  long  a  time.  At  an  early  ago 
Charles  left  school,  and  went  to  learn  the  trade  of  a 
printer.  He  was  industrious  and  obliging,  and  gained 
the  respect  not  only  of  his  master  but  his  fellow-appren 
tices.  Instead  of  spending  his  evenings  or  his  few 
leisure  hours  in  the  day  among  the  vicious  and  profane 
or  in  walking  the  streets  in  idleness,  he  would  obtain 
some  useful  work  and  peruse  it.  He  would  frequently 
carry  home  the  newspapers  of  the  day,  when  he  had 
nothing  else  to  read,  and  thus  endeavor  to  improve  his 
mind.  In  this  way  he  became  intelligent,  —  how  could 
it  be  otherwise?  —  and  won  the  good-will  of  all  who 
knew*  him.  At  times  he  would  take  a  sheet  of  paper, 
and  sit  in  the  little  room  of  his  mother,  endeavoring  to 
place  his  thoughts  upon  paper.  Charles  was  never 
idle  ;  he  was  either  at  work  with  his  hands  or  with  his 
mind. 

When  Clinton  became  of  age,  he  was  employed  by  his 
master  and  received  good  wages  for  his  services.  At 
this  time  Charles  was  acquainted  with  but  few  females ; 
among  these,  however,  was  Clara  Edwards,  at  whose 
house  he  occasionally  visited,  he  being  more  particu 
larly  acquainted  with  the  father.  He  was  cordially  re 
ceived  by  the  family,  but  Clara  endeavored  to  manifest 
her  dislike  to  him  in  various  ways.  He  held  to  no  views 
which  she  did  not  qppose,  and  was  not  inclined  to  con 
verse  with  him  on  any  subject.  Once  he  invited  her 
to  accompany  him  to  a  pleasant  place  of  retreat,  but  she 
refused,  by  saying  she  was  engaged ;  but  remained  at 
home  all  day. 

One  evening  he  found  most  of  the  family  had  gone 
out,  and  she  was  alone.  He  endeavored  to  interest  her 
by  introducing  various  topics  of  conversation,  but  she 


THE  CLAY  COVE  MECHANIC.          299 

manifested  no  interest  in  his  remarks,  and  he  remained 
but  a  short  time.  This  was  before  her  cousin  had  arrived 
from  the  country.  When  she  came,  he  found  one  who 
was  willing  to  converse,  who  behaved  like  a  lady  to  all 
who  visited  the  house. 

Mary  Edwards  had  been  at  her  cousin's  about  a  week 
when  the  conversation  at  the  commencement  of  our 
story  took  place.  A  day  or  two  after,  Charles  called 
at  the  house,  but  the  moment  Clara  saw  him  enter  the 
door  she  left  the  room.  Mary  accepted  a  polite  invita 
tion  to  accompany  him  to  a  concert,  and  in  a  few  mo 
ments  she  was  ready.  They  passed  an  agreeable  even 
ing.  She  had  no  sooner  returned  to  the  house  than 
her  cousin  exclaimed,  — 

"  What  a  fool  to  be  seen  with  Charles  Clinton !  I 
should  be  ashamed  of  myself.  No  one  who  thinks  any 
thing  of  herself  will  go  with  him.  I  don't  believe  our 
kitchen  girl  would  have  gone  with  him." 

"  To  speak  as  I  think,  Clara,  Charles  is  a  gentleman, 
and  I  esteem  it  an  honor  that  he  should  invite  me." 

"  Oh,  luddy,  I  shall  faint !  "  exclaimed  Clara. 

"  You  are  a  strange  girl.  Since  I  have  been  in  Port 
land  this  last  time,  I  have  seen  no  young  man  with 
whose  appearance  I  am  so  favorably  impressed  as  with 
Clinton's." 

"  Then,  really,  you  are  in  love  with  the  mechanic  — 
the  son  of  a  Clay  Cove  sailmaker." 

"  In  love  with  his  appearance,  I  am." 

"  And  you  may  marry  him  in  welcome.  Oh,  dear, 
what  strange  things  will  take  place  !  "  said  Clara,  with 
a  contemptuous  smile. 

"  Marry  him !  I  am  not  worthy  of  so  fine  a  gentle 
man.  He  is  my  superior  in  every  respect.  If  I  should 


300  THE  CLAY  COVE  MECHANIC. 

be  so  fortunate  as  to  obtain  such  a  man  for  a  hus 
band,  I  should  esteem  myself  the  most  fortunate  of 
girls." 

"  Distressing !  No  decent  girl  would  have  the  fellow. 
You  would  marry  him,  hey  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  would,  if  I  could  get  him." 

"Well,  really,  I  can't  help  laughing.  A  genuine 
love-scrape.  I  shall  give  up.  It  will  be  a  beautiful 
place,  I  must  confess,  to  live  in  —  that  hovel,  setting 
in  the  mud ;  and  to  have  so  beautiful  a  father-in-law ! 
Well,  I  declare,  it  will  be  fine." 

.  "You  anticipate  too  much  for  me,  cousin.  I  do 
not  expect  to  have  Charles.  He  looks  higher  than  a 
country  girl.  But  if  he  should  marry,  he  will  not  prob 
ably  take  his  wife  to  live  at  such  a  place  as  you  de 
scribe  ;  although  I  don't  know  where  Clay  Cove  is." 

At  this  moment  Clara's  parents  entered  the  room. 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news,  father  ?"  inquired  the 
proud  girl. 

"  No,  child,  I  have  heard  nothing.  What  interests  you 
so  much  ?  " 

"  You'll  laugh  well  when  I  tell  you.     It  is  no  less  than 
this :  Mary  has  got  a  beau." 

"  Indeed !  and  who  may  he  be  ?  " 

"  Who  should  you  guess  ?  " 

"I'm  sure  I  cannot  tell,"  said  the  father. 

" It  is  not  so,"  replied  Mary.  "I  have  been  to  the 
concert  to-night  with  young  Clinton,  and  Clara  is  mak 
ing  all  manner  of  sport  about  it." 

"  Well,  Clinton  is  a  fine  fellow,  and  you  could  not 
get  a  better  sweetheart." 

"What!    Charles    Clinton?"    inquired  the  mother. 

"Yes." 


THE  CLAY  COVE  MECHANIC.          301 

"  Why,  he  is  only  a  mechanic.  We  have  known  his 
father  for  years,  and  he  is  a  miserable  shoat.  They  live 
very  meanly.  No  respectable  people  ever  call  upon 
them." 

"  You  know,  wife,  a  great  change  has  been  wrought 
in  the  character  of  the  old  gentleman,  since  he  joined 
the  temperance  society.  Now  he  is  industrious,  and 
does  the  best  he  can  to  obtain  a  living.  His  wife,  I 
have  always  heard,  is  a  prudent,  active,  and  industrious 
woman  and  keeps  her  house  as  tidy  as  she  possibly  can." 

"  But  they  are  not  genteel,  and  never  will  be." 

"That  should  be  no  disparagement  to  the  son. 
Charles,  has  ever  behaved  like  a  gentleman,  and  there 
is  no  young  man  of  my  acquaintance  that  I  would 
sooner  Clara  would  marry." 

"  Father,  you  are  joking,"  said  the  daughter.  "  It 
is  the  most  absurd  idea  I  ever  heard  you  advance." 

"  My  child,  there  is  worth  in  that  young  man.  He 
has  talents  that  will  yet  shine  in  the  world.  Mark 
what  I  tell  you,  for  I  know  him  well." 

"  I  would  rather  be  an  old  maid  all  my  days,"  said 
Clara,  "than  have  such  a  fellow  —  the  son  of  a  miser 
able  drunkard." 

"  Clara,  you  must  not  talk  so.  ^  Mr.  Clinton  has  re 
formed,  and  I  understand  is  doing  well." 

"  But  no  one  will  forget  what  he  once  was,"  said  the 
mother ;  "  and  for  my  part  I  think  Clara  is  right  in  her 
views.  I  should  feel  dreadfully  to  know  she  was  waited 
upon  by  such  a  young  man  as  Charles.  And  I  know 
Mary's  father  would  feel  highly  indignant  if  he  knew 
who  his  daughter  had  been  with  this  evening." 

"  No,  no?  aunt,"  said  Mary ;  "  my  father  has  always 
taught  me  to  respect  and  love  all  who  are  kind  and  vir- 
26 


302          THE  CLAY  COVE  MECHANIC. 

tuous,  without  regard  to  their  situation  in  life.  But 
he  has  always  cautioned  me  to  beware  of  those  who 
show  a  fair  exterior,  but  are  corrupt  within." 

"  Mary  is  determined  to  have  her  way,"  said  Clara, 
"  and  she  will  probably  dream  of  Charles  to-night." 

But  little  more  was  said,  and  the  family  retired. 

The  next  day  Clara  would  often  inquire  about  "  the 
Clay  Cove  mechanic,"and  throw  out  insinuations  upon 
her  cousin  for  consenting  to  go  with  him ;  but  Mary 
heeded  her  not,  simply  remarking,  "  The  sequel  will 
tell  who  is  right  and  who  is  wrong  in  her  views." 

Mary  Edwards  continued  her  visit  several  weeks 
with  her  cousin,  and  during  that  time  Charles  called 
often  to  see  her,  but  as  usual  was  treated  with  neglect 
and  contempt  by  Clara.  He  pretended  not  to  notice 
her  coolness  and  indifference,  and  never  lisped  a  word 
to  her  discredit  to  her  cousin.  Before  Mary  left,  it  was 
well  understood  between  her  and  Charles  that  she  was 
to  be  his  future  wife.  The  day  for  her  departure  ar 
rived,  and  bidding  her  friend  good-by,  she  took  the  stage, 
and  was  on  her  way  home  to  Lewiston. 

Her  cousin  had  not  been  gone  many  weeks  before  a 
young  man  by  the  name  of  Henry  Watson  commenced  his 
visits  to  the  house  of  Clara.  He  had  made  her  acquaint 
ance  in  a  ballroom,  and  was  just  such  a  character  as 
suited  the  foolish  girl.  His  father  was  a  man  of  wealth, 
who  resided  in  a  large  house,  and  who  had  brought  his 
son  up  to  live  a  life  of  idleness.  Instead  of  putting 
him  in  a  counting-room  or  a  mechanic's  shop,  he  suffered 
him  to  walk  about,  doing  little,  until  he  was  eighteen 
1  or  twenty  years  of  age ;  and  then  he  was  too  old  to  learn 
a  trade.  He  was  furnished  with  pocket-money,  and 


THE  CLAY  COTE  MECHANIC.          303 

dressed  extravagantly,  associating  mostly  with  those  who 
had  no  regular  business. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  years,  both  Clara  and  Mary  were 
married,  one  to  the  industrious  mechanic,  the  other  to 
the  fashionable  fop.  As  the  tastes  of  the  two  girls  were 
so  different,  they  seldom  saw  each  other.  Clinton  took 
a  small  house,  and  commenced  life  as  he  thought  he  was 
able  to  go  through.  But  Watson  hired  a  large  house, 
and  had  it  elegantly  furnished. 

Ten  or  fifteen  years  have  passed  away  since  the 
cousins  were  married.  As  you  pass  up  one  of  our 
most  pleasant  streets,  you  will  notice  a  beautiful  white 
house,  with  healthy  trees  before  it.  Every  thing  is 
neat  and  commodious  about  the  dwelling.  It  is  the 
residence  of  Charles  Cinton.  He  owes  not  a  dollar 
for  it.  Besides  his  independent  circumstances,  he  is 
honored  and  respected  by  all  who  know  him,  and  has 
frequently  been  promoted  to  offices  of  trust.  By  his 
industry  and  energy,  the  mechanic  has  risen  to  his  pres 
ent  respectable  standing  in  society. 

Pass  down  to  Clay  Cove.  Do  you  see  the  small  black 
house,  once  the  residence  of  Charles  Clinton,  when  his 
father  was  nothing  but  a  sailmaker  and  an  inebriate  ? 
That  now  is  the  residence  of  Henry  Watson  and  his 
wife.  They  are  poor  and.  destitute,  and  live  mostly 
upon  charity.  It  was  not  long  after  he  was  married, 
that  his  father  failed  in  business  and  lost  his  property, 
and  Henry,  being  brought  up  to  no  particular  business, 
took  hold  of  what  first  presented,  but  did  not  succeed, 
and  was  obliged  to  remove  from  one  house  to  another, 
not  being  able  to  pay  his  rent,  until  he  accepted  the 
little  house  in  Clay  Cove,  rent  free,  from  his  friend, 
Charles  Clinton. 


304          THE  CLAY  COVE  MECHANIC. 

Poor  Clara  has  been  doubly  paid  for  her  folly,  and  re« 
pented  in  dust  and  ashes  the  stand  she  took  against  the 
poor  mechanic.  Her  husband  has  but  little  education 
and  no  energy,  and  is,  in  every  sense,  a  poor  tool.  Mary 
Clinton  has  too  good  a  heart  to  reproach  her  cousin, 
and  has  been  uncommonly  kind  and  generous  to  her. 

All  is  not  gold  that  glitters.  Let  the  reader  learn  this 
lesson  from  the  above  story.  Judge  not  a  man  by  his 
business  or  profession,  but -look  to  his  heart  and  dispo 
sition.  Reproach  no  man  on  account  of  the  sins  and 
poverty  of  his  parents.  The  rarest  gems  are  often  found 
on  a  dunghill.  Let  this  be  the  lesson  you  learn,  and 
our  story  will  not  have  been  written,  in  vain. 


THE    LAWYER. 


CHAPTER    I. 

His  aim  is  high  ;  no  low  desire 

Prompts  him  to  choose  the  right; 
His  acts  pass  through  detraction's  fire 

Unscathed  —  without  a  blight. 
He  cannot  suffer,  for  within 
There  is  no  curse  from  practised  sin. 

"  HURRAH  !  there's  old  Johnny  A  very  singing  one  of 
his  songs !  "  exclaimed  John  Edson  to  his  companion,  one 
Fourth  of  July ;  "  let's  go  and  hear  him." 

"  Agreed,"  said  William  Stacy,  and  they  both  ran  up 
the  hill,  where,  beside  old  Ma'am  Shepherd's  tent,  the 
old  man  was  singing  one  of  his  favorite  songs. 

When  Avery  had  finished,  he  handed  round  his  hat 
for  the  change  which  he  usually  received  for  a  song, 
and  one  and  another  dropped  in  a  copper  or  two  for 
the  old  fellow ;  when  unobserved,  John  Edson  hit  the 
hat  a  knock,  and  sent  it  to  the  ground.  While  Avery 
was  picking  up  the  change,  the  little  boy  contrived  to 
get  two  or  three  coppers,  which  he  put  into  his  pocket 
and  ran  off. 

When  he  saw  his  companion,  he>told  him  what  he  had 
done,  laughing  heartily  at  the  joke,  as  he  called  it. 

"You  did  wrong,"  said  William  Stacy,  "  to  take  the 
26* 


306  THE  LAWYER. 

poor  man's  money ;  and  if  I  were  you  I  would  go  di 
rectly  back  and  give  it  to  him." 

"  That  I  will  not  do,"  said  John ;  "  and  I  wish  I  had 
got  more  of  it.  I  also  contrived  to  take  two  or  three 
of  Ma'am  Shepherd's  eggs,  when  she,  was  looking  another 
way." 

"  You  do  wrong,  John,  to  steal  and  you  will  be  sorry 
for  it." 

"  No,  I  sha'n't.  There  is  no  harm  in  taking  two  or 
three  cents  from  anybody." 

"  It  is  as  much  stealing,  as  if  you  took  two  or  three 
dollars." 

"  But  I  don't  consider  it  so ;  and  when  I  can  get 
something  so  easy,  I  always  intend  to,"  and  so  saying, 
he  ran  off  before  his  companion  could  reply. 

John  Edsoii  and  "William  Stacy  were  neighbors  and 
playmates.  The  former  was  the  son  of  a  merchant ;  the 
mother  of  the  latter  was  a  widow.  The  father  of  John 
expended  a  great  deal  of  money  on  his  boy,  determin 
ing  to  give  him  a  good  education.  He  fitted  him  for 
college,  and  in  his  seventeenth  year  he  entered.  He 
barely  passed  an  examination,  for  John  was  a  dull 
scholar,  and  hated  his  books.  On  leaving  home,  his 
father  gave  him  money  to  spend,  telling  him,  if  that  was 
not  sufficient,  to  write  him,  and  he  would  furnish  him 
with  more. 

About  the  same  time,  William  Stacy  was  placed  with 
a  mechanic  to  learn  the  mysteries  of  a  trade.  His  poor 
mother  was  obliged  to  labor  with  her  hands  to  support 
her  little  family  ;  but  she  felt  encouraged  that  her  son 
would  do  well,  and  in  the  course  of  time,  if  she  lived, 
be  able  to  render  her  some  assistance.  William  was  al 
ways  good  to  his  mother,  and,  when  he  earned  a  few 


THE  LAWYER.  307 

coppers,  invariably  gave  them  to  her  to  purchase  some 
thing  for  the  family.  He  regretted  leaving  his  parent 
when  he  went  to  his  trade,  but  he  felt  that  he  should 
have  the  privilege  of  seeing  her  often,  and  in  the  end  of 
being  able  to  assist  her,  and  so  he  kept  up  good  spirits. 
His  master  was  a  kind  man,  and  finding  his  apprentice 
honest  and  faithful,  did  much  to  encourage  him.  The 
boy  was  fond  of  reading,  and  his  master  assisted  him  in 
obtaining  those  works  which  pleased  him  the  most.  He 
was  delighted  with  Rollin's  History,  Plutarch's  Lives, 
Josephus,  and  like  works,  from  which  he  could  gather 
information.  Instead  of  spending  his  leisure  time  in 
idleness,  or  in  vicious  pursuits,  he  was  storing  his 
mind  with  knowledge,  and  preparing  himself  for  a  use 
ful  life. 

At  the  expiration  of  each  college  term,  young  Edson 
would  visit  his  parents,  and  spend  a  portion  of  his  time 
with  his  old  playmate,  William.  But  as  he  grew  older, 
he  became  less  intimate  with  the  apprentice,  doubtless 
feeling  that  William  was  engaged  in  a  less  laudable  pur 
suit,  and  withal  he  was  not  so  particular  as  to  his  dress 
and  the  following  out  of  the  fashions.  The  young  me 
chanic  noticed  the  indifference  of  John,  but  always 
treated  him  with  kindness  and  respect.  He  learned 
from  various  sources  that  the  collegian  did  not  stand 
high  in  his  class.  Instead*  of  giving  his  attention  to  his 
studies,  he  looked  more  for  his  present  gratification  in 
pleasure  and  folly.  He  was  not  a  very  moral  youth, 
and  therefore  gained  the  friendship  of  but  few.  When 
he  graduated,  he  took  no  part  in  the  exercises  at  com 
mencement,  but  returned  to  his  father  what  is  called 
an  educated  man.  It  was  some  time  before  John  con 
cluded  what  profession  to  follow.  He  thought  first  of 


308  THE  LAWYE3. 

being  a  preacher,  then  a  doctor,  or  teacher,  but  finally, 
decided  upon  the  law.  He  had  brass  and  impudence 
enough  for  any  pursuit,  and  these-  are  two  essential 
qualifications  to  make  one  eminent  at  the  bar  ;  so  John 
thought,  and  so  thought  his  father.  There  was  no  dif 
ficulty  in  obtaining  a  place  in  an  office ;  and  the  young 
man  soon  commenced  the  perusal  of  Coke  and  Black- 
stone.  In  the  same  office  with  John  were  several  other 
students,  who,  observing  the  carelessness  of  their  com 
panion,  endeavored  to  play  tricks  upon  him,  and  were 
at  times  successful.  He  was  so  indifferent  Jo  what  he 
read  that,  had  he  been  questioned  at  night  what  subject 
he  had  perused,  he  would  not  have  been  able  to  say. 
John  always  kept  a  mark  in  his  law  book,  for  otherwise 
he  could  not  tell  how  far  he  had  progressed  in  the  mys 
teries  of  the  profession.  Observing  this,  the  other  stu 
dents  often  placed  his  mark  some  twenty  or  thirty  pages 
back,  so  that  Edson  perused  the  same  pages  several  times 
without  being  conscious  of  it.  He  would  sometimes  re 
mark,  "  I  think  I  have  before  read  something  similar 
to  this,"  and  proceed  in  his  studies.  John  had  good 
abilities,  but  he  was  lazy  and  heedless,  and  exerted 
himself  but  little  to  improve  his  mind.  He  better  un 
derstood  the  fashions,  and  moved  in  what  arc  termed 
the  higher  circles.  After  remaining  in  the  office  three 
years,  —  the  time  specified  by  our  wise  lawmakers, — 
young  Edson  was  permitted  to  practise  in  his  profession. 
About  this  time  John's  father  died,  leaving  him  sev 
eral  thousand  dollars  as  his  portion  of  his  estate.  Upon 
the  strength  of  five  or  six  thousand  dollars,  Edson 
married  a  fashionable  girl,  and  commenced  living  in  an 
expensive  style.  At  the  same  time,  he  hired  a  room, 
aiid  placed  over  his  door,  in  large  letters,  JOHN  ED- 


THE  LAWYER.  309 

SON,  Counsellor  at  Law.  He  also  made  known  the  fact 
in  all  the  newspapers  published  in  the  vicinity.  The 
young  lawyer  lived  as  if  he  thought  his  capital  would 
never  be  exhausted,  and  so  he  paid  but  little  attention 
to  his  business.  He  was  occasionally  consulted  by  somo 
straggling  sailor,  or  forlorn  negro,  and  he  gave  them 
advice  as  readily  as  if  he  had  been  master  of  his  profes 
sion  ;  but  no  sooner  had  his  clients  departed,  than  Ed- 
son  was  seen  whipping  into  the  office  of  his  next-door 
neighbors  in  the  profession,  to  inquire  if  he  was  right. 
If  so,  it  was  well  and  good  ;  if  not,  he  would  endeavor 
to  correct  his  mistake  at  the  next  interview. 

By  the  course  that  Edson  pursued,  in  a  few  years 
his  six  thousand  dollars  were  expended.  When  the 
fact  came  home  to  him,  he  was  much  depressed  in 
spirits,  but  contented  himself  by  saying,  "  Well,  I've 
done  the  best  I  could,  and  been  as  prudent  as  possible." 
Now,  from  sheer  necessity,  he  was  obliged  to  live  in  a 
small  tenement,  and  to  stick  close  to  his  profession,  or 
he  could  not  get  along.  It  was  humiliating  to  both 
himself  and  his  wife,  but  it  could  not  be  avoided.  To 
increase  his  law  business  was  a  difficult  matter;  but 
nevertheless,  it'must  be  done.  He  had  thoughts  of  leav 
ing  the  place,  but  was  fearful  it  would  not  better  his 
prospects.  Edson  went  round  among  his  friends  and 
solicited  their  business.  "  I  should  like  to  do  your  col 
lecting,  or  any  business  in  my  line  that  you  can  give 
me.  I  will  do  my  best  for  you,  and  be  prompt  in  paying 
over,"  he  would  remark,  and  sometimes  he  secured  a 
job. 

Before  military  inspection  and  review  days  and  gen 
eral  musters,  he  invariably  called  upon  the  clerks  of  the 


310  THE  LAWYER. 

several  ward  and  independent  companies,  to  solicit  their 
business  and  collect  the  fines.  "  I  will  do  my  best," 
Said  he, "  and  if  I  do  not  succeed  in  collecting  I  will  not 
charge  you  for  my  services." 

Some  took  pity  on  him  and  threw  their  business  into 
his  hands ;  but  he  thereby  made  enemies.  Men  who 
were  exempt  by  law  from  performing  military  duties, 
were  alike  sued  with  those  who  wished  to  evade  the  law, 
and  although  Edson  could  not  get  his  cases,  he  put  the 
gentlemen  to  no  little  trouble  and  expense  to  defend 
themselves.  j 

There  is  no  greater  plague  to  the  community  than  a 
miserable  pettifogger,  and  such  a  character  Edson 
proved  himself  to  bo.  He  had  wasted  a  handsome  prop 
erty,  and  was  now  starving  for  business.  So  he  eagerly 
grasped  at  low  and  miserable  cases,  and  secured  the 
name  of  a  mean  and  low-lived  attorney. 

As  long  as  his  mother  survived  Edson  had  the  means 
of  a  comfortable  living,  but  at  her  death,  when  her  lit 
tle  property  was  divided  among  a  number  of  children, 
he  was  poor  indeed.  The  vicious  habits  he  had  con 
tracted  in  early  life  grew  upon  him,  and  he  was  occa 
sionally  seen  overcome  by  ardent  spirits.  Thus,  in  the 
meridian  of  life,  he  had  lost  his  best  friends,  and  associ 
ated  mostly  with  the  low  and  abandoned.  As  his  only 
hope  of  a  livelihood,  and  to  be  saved  from  unpleasant  as 
sociations,  he  concluded  to  remove  to  another  place,  and 
exert  himself  to  get  more  practice.  Accordingly,  with 
out  making  it  known  excepting  to  a  very  few,  —  for  he 
was  indebted  to  a  large  amount,  —  he  left  his  native  place 
for  another  town.  Having  arrived,  as  soon  as  possible 
he  obtained  a  small  tenement  for  his  wife  and  children, 


THE  LAWYER.  311 

agreeing  with  his  landlord  to  be  punctual  in  the  pay 
ment  of  his  rent  as  soon  as  it  became  due. 

Entirely  unacquainted  in  the  place,  he  sought  busi 
ness  in  his  profession,  but  was  unsuccessful.  His  fam 
ily  were  destitute  and  suffering,  and,  as  a  last  resort,  he 
came  to  the  conclusion  to  act  as  porter  in  the  store  of  a 
merchant,  for  a  small  salary.  As  this  was  not  sufficient 
to  support  him  and  pay  his  rent,  he  knew  not  what  step 
to  take,  for  he  had  resided  in  the  place  three  months, 
and  daily  expected  a  visit  from  his  landlord. 

One  evening  he  heard  a  light  rap  at  the  door.  On 
opening  it,  he  discovered  the  gentleman  of  whom  he 
hired  the  house,  who  asked  for  his  rent. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  disappoint  you  to-night,"  said  Edson, 
"  but  if  you  will  call  day  after  to-morrow,  I  will  be  ready. 
I  have  been  disappointed  in  my  expectations,  but  then 
you  shall  have  it  without  fail." 

The  gentleman  left,  remarking  simply  that  it  would 
be  just  as  convenient  for  him  to  wait. 

The  poor  man  did  not  know  where  the  money  would 
come  from  that  he  had  promised  so  soon  ;  but  Edson 
had  no  correct  principles,  and  at  once  he  came  to  the 
conclusion  to  take  the  amount  from  the  store  of  his  em 
ployer,  if  he  could  possibly  get  an  opportunity.  "Watch 
ing  his  chance,  he  slyly  purloined  the  amount  from  the 
merchant,  and  paid  his  landlord  as  he  had  promised. 

On  the  following  Saturday  night  the  money  was 
missed,  but  how  to  account  for  it  was  a  mystery  to  the 
merchant  and  his  clerks.  The  account  of  sales  was  ex 
amined  again  and  again,  and  the  money  counted  over 
and  over,  still  twenty  dollars  were  gone.  No  one  sus 
pected  the  "  honest  porter,"  as  he  was  called,  and  he 
would  probably  have  never  been  detected  if  he  had 


312  THE  LAWYER. 

stopped  here.  But  when  one  wrong  step  is  taken,  it 
opens  the  way  for  another.  Edson  not  only  took  money 
from  his  employer,  but  articles  from  the  store  to  a  con 
siderable  amount  at  different  times,  till  at  last  he  was 
suspected  and  known  to  be  the  thief.  He  was  accused 
of  it,  and,  although  he  denied  the  truth,  was  arrested 
by  an  officer  and  lodged  in  jail. 


CHAPTER    II. 

We  all  can  give  —  the  poor,  the  weak, 

And  be  an  angel  guest ; 
How  small  a  tiling  to  smile,  to  •speak, 

And  make  the  wretched  blest ! 
These  favors  let  us  all  bestow, 

And  scatter  joys  abroad, 
And  make  the  vales  of  sorrow  glow 

With  the  sweet  smiles  of  God. 

WILLIAM  STACY  continued  a  faithful  and  industrious 
apprentice.  He  gathered  up  knowledge  year  by  year,  de 
voting  all  his  leisure  time  to  the  improvement  of  his  mind. 
When  he  became  of  age  I  doubt  whether  a  college-ed 
ucated  young  man  had  a  more  thorough  knowledge  of 
the  mathematics,  of  Greek  and  Latin  than  himself.  He 
pursued  those  studies  which  are  usually  taught  in  col 
lege,  and  by  diligence  and  industry  had  become  master 
of  what  he  attempted.  Soon  after  his  freedom  he  left 
his  native  town  to  reside  in  another  city,  thinking  that 
better  prospects  would  be  held  out  to  him  at  his  trade. 
But  in  this  respect  he  was  disappointed.  He  could  get 


THE  LAWYER,  313 

no  work.  A  thought  struck  him.  Perhaps  I  can  study 
a  profession ;  and,  entering  the  first  lawyer's  office  he 
came  across,  Stacy  made  known  his  intention.  The 
gentleman  was  prepossessed  in  his  favor,  and  agreed  to 
take  him,  provided  he  would  do  his  writing,  collecting, 
etc.  When  he  understood  the  young  man's  situation, 
he  gave  him  permission  to  board  at  his  house,  if,  at  some 
future  day,  when  he  became  able,  he  would  cancel  the 
debt.  William  expressed  his  gratitude,  and  immediately 
commenced  his  studies.  A  young jnan  of  so  amiable  a 
disposition,  and  possessing  so  many  admirable  qualities 
of  mind,  could  not  but  secure  the  good-will  of  the  law 
yer.  He  became  a  favorite  in  the  family  of  Mr.  Lager, 
for  that  was  the  name  of  the  attorney,'  a  man  who  had 
an  extensive  practice,  who  was  a  perfect  gentleman  in 
all  his  dealings  and  behavior.  Feeling  an  interest  in 
the  young  student,  he  used  his  exertions  to  interest  and 
inform  him.  He  saw  that  his  young  friend  was  a  man 
of  no  ordinary  talents,  and  he  treated  him  as  a  compan 
ion.  When  he  had  studied  the  usual  time,  he  was  ad 
mitted  to  the  bar,  soon  after  which  Mr.  Lager  took  him 
into  full  copartnership. 

Perhaps  I  should  have  stated  before  that  Mr.  Lager 
had  a  daughter  to  whom  Stacy  Was  quite  partial.  He 
had  been  in  business  but  a  little  more  than  a  year 
when  he  was  united  in  marriage  to  Elizabeth  Lager.  It 
will  be  enough  to  say  that  she  was  an  excellent  woman 
and  made  her  husband  one  of  the  best  of  wives. 

The  business  of  Lager  and  Stacy  was  extensive ;  they 
had  more  practice  than  any  three  lawyers  in  the  place. 
For  years  they  prospered  and  accumulated  money. 
Stacy  had  made  enough  by  his  profession  to  build  him 
a  handsome  house,  where  he  now  resided.  But  amid 
27 


314  THE  LAWYER. 

his  prosperity  he  did  not  forget  his  mother.  Every  year 
she  visited  him,  and  received  enough  at  the  hands  of  her 
son  to  support  her  comfortably.  No  man  stood  higher 
at  the  bar  than  William  Stacy.  He  had  eloquence  and 
power,  and  proved  eminently  successful  in  all  his  cases. 

We  have  now  come  to  that  period  in  our  story  when 
poor  John  Edson  was  carried  to  prison  for  theft.  In 
his  gloomy  cell  he  reflected  on  his  past  life,  his  vicious 
and  profligate  course,  his  once  bright  prospects,  and  his 
present  blasted  hopes,  and  there  alone  and  in  solitude 
he  wept  like  a  child.  "  Oh,  that  I  had  been  wise,  that 
I  had  been  indutsrious,  that  I  had  been  conscientious, 
rhat  I  had  consulted  duty  and  not  pleasure  ;  but  there  is 
now  no  help  far  me."  Poor  man !  he  now  felt  his  case 
to  be  severe,  and  he  knew  not  what  to  do.  He  had  no 
friends  who  could  assist  him. 

A  few  days  before  his  trial  came  on,  a  young  man  who 
was  clerk  in 'the  store  where  Edson  was  employed,  called 
to  see  him.  Although  he  knew  that  he  must  be  guilty, 
he  felt  for  Edson's  condition,  and  when  he  saw  his  tears 
and  his  anguish,  his  heart  was  moved. 

"Have  you  any  counsel  employed?"  inquired  the 
young  man. 

"No,  I  have  none." 

"  But  you  had  better  employ  one." 

"  I  cannot  pay  him,  and  what  man  would  exert  him 
self  in  my  behalf?  " 

"  But  you  must  have  counsel.  Suppose  I  call  on 
Lager  and  Stacy,  and  tell  them  you  wish  to  secure  their 
services  ?  " 

"  If  you  think  it  would  be  of  any  avail,  and  they  would 
consent  to  defend  me,  if  ever  I  am  able,  I  will  pay  them." 

"  Then  I  will  call  upon  them.    They  are  the  best  law- 


THE  LAWYER.  315 

yers  in  the  city.  If  there  is  any  hope  for  you,  the  junior 
partner  can  succeed." 

Edson  was  a  little  encouraged.  As  the  young  man 
departed,  he  expressed  his  gratitude  to  him  in  tears. 
Since  nis  confinement,  this  was  the  first  time  he  felt  that 
any  one  was  interested  in  his  welfare,  aside  from  his 
wife  and  children. 

The  next  morning  the  jailer  announced  to  Edson  that 
his  counsel  had  arrived,  who  soon  seated  himself  beside 
the  miserable  man. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  in  this  place, 
and  if  I  can  be  of  any  service  to  you,  I  will  use  my  ex 
ertions  in  your  behalf." 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,"  said  Edson. 

"  But  I  wish  to  know  if  you  are  really  guilty  of  what 
las  been  charged  to  you,  and  if  so,  whether  you  have 
ever  made  it  known  to  another." 

"  I  am  guilty ;  but  poverty  alone  prompted  me  to  com 
mit  the  deed.  A  wife  and  two  children  are  dependent 
upon  me,  and  I  am  poor  indeed." 

"  Have  you  ever  been  guilty  of  like  offences  ?  " 

"  Never,  since  I  was  a  child.  Then  upon  several  oc 
casions  I  took  what  belonged  to  others ;  but  it  was  from 
mere  roguery  or  thoughtlessness,  for  my  parents  were 
wealthy." 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Edson." 

"What!   John  Edson?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Indeed !  it  is  my  old  playmate,  as  true  as  I  live." 

Tears  fell  from  the  eyes  of  both  as  they  at  once  rec 
ognized  each  other,  and  the  mind  flew  back  to  other 
days  when  they  were  happy  in  their  sports,  when  one 


316  THE  LAWYER. 

was  the  son  of  a  ricli  merchant,  the  other  the  son  of  a 
poor  widow.  It  was  some  time  before  they  could  speak, 
but  through  his  tears,  Edson  related  all  the  circum 
stances  of  his  checkered  life,  since  he  last  saw  his  early 
companion.  "  Oh,  that  I  had  been  wise,"  he  continued, 
"  and  pursued  an  upright  course ;  I  should  not  now 
have  been  in  this  wretched  state." 

His  friend  assured  him  that  he  would  use  his  strong 
est  exertions  to  clear  him,  provided  in  future  he  would 
pursue  a  different  course,  and  live  an  honest  and  up 
right  life. 

"  "With  all  my  heart,  I  will.  Your  example,  if  nothing 
else,  will  induce  me  to  do  so." 

After  a  long  conversation,  Stacy  left  his  friend,  and 
bent  his  steps  to  the  wife  and  children  of  the  prisoner. 
He  found  them  poor  and  miserable  indeed.  In  years 
past  he  had  been  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Edson,  and  knew 
her  to  be  a  proud  and  haughty  girl,  one  who  sneered  at 
him  because  he  was  a  poor  mechanic.  But  he  treas 
ured  no  ill  feeling  in  his  heart,  and  when  he  visited 
her,  he  found  her  almost  the  victim  of  despair.  Her 
spirits  had  been  broken  and  her  health  impaired,  and 
with  brimful  eyes  she  expressed  her  gratitude  to  Mr. 
Stacy  for  his  kindness,  and  begged  him  to  do  all  in  his 
power  to  release  her  husband. 

The  kind  lawyer  sent  her  various  things  for  her  pres 
ent  necessities,  and  requested  his  wife  to  call  upon  her 
and  render  what  assistance  she  could.  Mrs.  Stacy,  ever 
prompt  to  do  a  generous  deed  and  alleviate  suffering, 
hastened  to  the  poor  woman^  and,  by  her  kindness,  in 
a  great  measure  removed  the  burden  from  the  heart  of 
the  suffering  wife. 

Before  Edson' s  case  came  on,  his  old  friend  called 


I 
THE  LAWYER.  317 

often  to  see  him.  On  the  morning  of  his  trial,  Stacy 
was  in  the  courthouse,  prepared  to  do  his  best  to  liber 
ate  the  criminal  at  the  bar.  The  indictment  was  read 
by  the  clerk,  and  when  the  question  was  asked,  "  Guilty 
or  not  guilty,"  the  prisoner,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  replied 
"  Not  guilty."  The  evidence  was  brought  forward,  and 
the  witnesses  examined.  It  could  be  seen  by  the  ques 
tions  put  to  the  witnesses  by  Stacy,'  and  the  manner  in 
which  he  conducted  his  case,  that  he  was  deeply  interested 
in  his  subject.  When  the  examination  of  witnesses  was 
closed,  the  lawyer  commenced  his  argument.  It  was  not . 
long,  but  it  was  full  of  power  and  eloquence.  He  por 
trayed  the  situation  of  the  prisoner,  poor  and  friendless, 
in  such  vivid  colors  that  tears  were  seen  to  trickle  down 
the  cheeks  of  the  jury.  After  the  argument  from  the 
opposing  counsel,  the  jury  retired,  and  in  a  few  mo 
ments  returned  with  the  verdict  in  favor  of  the  prisoner. 
There  was  not  a  man  present  who  did  not  rejoice  to 
hear  it,  not  excepting  those  who  had  accused  the  pris 
oner  of  theft. 

Stacy  wept  for  joy,  and  hastened  to  carry  the  good 
news  to  his  family.  From  this  period  commenced  a 
new  era  in  the  life  of  Edson.  By  the  advice  of  his 
friend,  he  was  persuaded  to  renew  his  profession,  which 
he  did  with  zeal  and  energy.  He  now  began  to  study 
in  right  earnest  in  the  office  of  Stacy,  and  in  a  few 
months  was  able  to  practise.  Although  he  never  made 
an  eminent  lawyer,  by  his  virtuous  course  and  industri 
ous  habits,  he  was  able  ,to  earn  a  comfortable  support. 

Now,  the  two  early  friends  are  on  the  strictest  terms  of 
intimacy.     Notwithstanding  Stacy  is  rich  and  independ 
ent,  he  remembers  his  poverty  and  is  humble  and  gen 
erous.     Edson  looks  back  on  his  past  life  with  regret 
27* 


318  THE  LAWYER. 

and  sorrow,  but  strives  to  make  amends  for  a  profligate 
course,  and  by  his  good  habits  and  attention  to  busi 
ness,  has  secured  many  kind  and  excellent  friends. 
May  they  both  live  long,  and  exert  an  influence  that 
will  continue  to  be  favorable  to  truth  and  virtue. 


THE  AGREEABLE  DECEPTION. 


Good  thoughts  and  generous  deeds  alone 

Survive  when  we  are  dead ; 
These  will  around  our  memories 

A  glorious  halo  shed. 
If  we  have  raised  a  sinking  form, 

Removed  a  single  tear, 
A  spot  of  sunshine  long  will  rest 

On  paths  we  wandered  here. 

"  I  FEEL  no  better,  mother,  since  I  took  the  last  medi 
cine." 

"  I  cannot  account  for  it,  Sarah.  The  advertise 
ment  in  the  paper  says  the  pills  are  a  certain  cure  for 
diseases  like  yours,  and  that  hundreds  have  been  bene 
fited  by  them." 

"  Since  I  took  the  pills,  I  don't  think  I  am  so  well." 

"  Perhaps  you  did  not  take  sufficient.  I  will  send 
for  another  box." 

Widow  Mason  lived  in  a  small  village.  She  had  but 
one  daughter,  a  young  woman  about  twenty  years  of 
age.  Mrs.  Mason  was  very  careful  of  the  health  of  her 
child,  and  whenever  she  complained  of  the  least  illness 
she  would  run  to  the  pill-box,  this  being  in  her  view  the 
sovereign  remedy  for  all  the  ills  of  the  flesh.  The 
mother  was  altogether  too  credulous.  What  she  read 
in  the  papers  she  believed.  She  never  doubted  the 
truth  of  the  recommendations  attached  to  the  adver- 


320          THE  AGREEABLE  DECEPTION. 

tiscments  of  medicines,  and  did  not  doubt  that  the 
makers  and  venders  of  the  pills  were  actuated  by  the 
purest  motives  of  benevolence  —  that  they  had  the  real 
good  of  suffering  humanity  at  heart. 

As  Sarah  had  been  complaining  for  a  day  or  two,  her 
mother  had  given  her  a  dose  of  pills,  and  was  surprised 
that  she  was  no  better.  As  she  was  about  sending  to 
town  for  another  box,  she  took  up  a  paper  and  saw  a 
flaming  notice  of  a  new  medicine,  called  the  "  Universal 
Vegetable  Pill."  "  How  fortunate,  Sarah,"  said  she, 
after  she  had  perused  the  advertisement,  "  here's  just 
what  is  wanted  in  your  case.  I  must  get  Charles  to 
go  to-morrow  and  purchase  some." 

"  So  you  must,  mother,"  said  the  daughter,  after  she 
had  cast  her  eye  over  the  paper.  "  It  is  what  I  have 
needed  for  some  time.  Just  see  the  recommendations ; 
multitudes  have  been  cured." 

When  Charles  came  in,  and  Mrs.  Mason  made  known 
her  wish,  the  young  man  replied,  "  I  think  you  miss  it 
to  buy  so  much  medicine.  The  pills  that  Sarah  took 
yesterday  were  of  no  service  to  her,  and  she  may  con 
tinue  to  take  them,  and  still  be  as  feeble.  I  think  it 
rather  injurious  to  take  so  much  stuff.  I  would  not 
purchase  more." 

Charles  Sumers  was  tlie  son  of  a  neighbor,  a  man  of 
sterling  integrity,  who  had  seen  something  of  the  world 
and  knew  the  deceptions  and  frauds  which  were  too 
often  practised  on  the  credulous  and  unsuspicious.  For 
some  few  years  he  had  been  a  constant  visitor  at  the 
house  of  the  widow;  and  it  was  believed  that  he  was  en- 
gagod  to  Sarah.  As  he  was  aware  of  the  amount  of 
money  the  mother  expended  for  medicine  at  various 
timos,  he  often  reminded  her  of  the  folly  of  thus  throw- 


THE  AGREEABLE  DECEPTION.          321 

ing  it  away ;  telling  her  that  those  men  she  considered 
as  philanthropists,  were  generally  avaricious  and  un 
principled,  and  did  not  care  how  much  misery  and  pov 
erty  they  produced,  providing  it  put  money  into  their 
own  pockets.  But  the  widow  could  not  believe  it  pos 
sible.  Notwithstanding  his  aversion  to  pills,  Charles 
consented  the  next  day  to  purchase  a  "box  of  the  last  ad 
vertised. 

By  her  mother's  request  Sarah  took  a  dose,  and  the 
next  day  she  appeared  better.  "  What  did  I  tell  you, 
Charles  ?  "  said  the  mother ;  "  those  pills  have  been  of 
great  service  to  Sarah.  I  shall  never  be  without  them." 

For  fear  her  daughter  might  yet  grow  worse,  Mrs. 
Mason  continued  to  dose  her  day  by  day,  so  as  to  pu 
rify  her  blood  and  strengthen  her.  But  in  a  week  or 
two  Sarah  was  as  feeble  as  ever,  and  a  larger  quantity 
of  pills  was  given.  Occasionally,  the  girl  would  appear 
much  stronger  and  better ;  but  her  old  complaint  re 
turned  again,  Charles  insisted  that  she  took  too  much 
medicine,  and  would  never  be  well  until  she  quit  it. 
But  her  mother  would  not  hear  to  him,  and  repeatedly 
said,  her  daughter  would  have  been  in  her  grave  had 
it  not  been  for  the  pills. 

"Well,  Charles,  what  do  you  think  of  Sarah  this 
morning  ?  "  said  the  mother ;  "  doesn't  she  look  brighter 
and  happier  than  she  has  done  for  some  time  past  ?  " 

"  She  appears  pretty  well,  if  it  would  only  last.  She 
will  never  be  better,  I  am  afraid,  until  you  relinquish 
the  use  of  those  plaguy  pills." 

"  These  have  kept  her  alive,  I  am  certain.  The  rea 
son  why  Sarah  is  so  much  better  this  morning  is,  she 
has  been  taking  some  new  pills,  the  very  best  ever  in 
vented,  the  Indian  Vegetable  Pill.  I  saw  them  adver- 


322         THE  AGREEABLE  DECEPTION. 

tised  last  week,  and  sent  and  purchased  a  couple  of 
boxes,  and  they  have  produced  a  wonderful  effect." 

"  What !  have  you  been  trying  more  of  those  rascally 
pills  ?  It  is  a  wonder  that  Sarah  is  not  in  her  grave. 
I  verily  believe  if  you  do  not  stop  dosing  her  you  will 
kill  her  outright.  For  the  last  two  years  you  have  ex 
pended  more  than  a  hundred  dollars  for  medicine,  most 
of  which  has  been  taken  by  her.  If  that  is  not  enough 
to  destroy  the  constitution,  I  don't  know  what  is." 

"  How  singular  you  talk,  Charles.  It  is  for  her  good 
that  I  sacrifice  this  money." 

"  Yes,  but  you  are  mistaken.  You  have  tried  no  less 
than  a  dozen  kinds  of  pills,  balsams,  jellys,  etc.,  and  the 
last  is  always  the  best.  So  you  may  keep  trying,  and 
you  will  find  that  Sarah  will  never  be  any  better.  Of 
this  I  am  certain." 

His  words  were  true.  The  daughter  grew  weaker 
and  weaker  day  by  day,  and  it  was  evident  that  the  med 
icine  given  her  by  her  mother  had  contributed  to  injure 
her  health,  but  she  could  not  believe  it.  Sumers  felt 
that  something  must  be  done,  or  Sarah  could  not  long 
survive.  As  for  convincing  her  mother  that  she  was 
wrong,  it  was  an  impossibility.  He  knew  that  the  stuff 
given  to  the  daughter  had  a  deleterious  effect,  and  ut 
terly  prevented  her  restoration  to  health.  There  was 
scarcely  a  day  passed  when,  to  please  her  mother,  she 
did  not  swallow  one  pill  or  more,  and  she  had  thus 
practised  for  two  or  three  years,  so  that  now  she  was  un 
fit  for  the  duties  of  life.  After  reflecting  what  course 
to  pursue,  he  hit  upon  a  project. 

One  morning  he  called  upon  Mrs.  Mason  with  a  news 
paper  in  his  hand,  and  inquired  of  her  if  she  had  heard 
the  news. 


•  THE  AGREEABLE  DECEPTION.  323 

"  I  have  heard  nothing.     What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Here  is  a  paper  which  I  have  just  received,  which 
contains  an  important  discovery  —  no  less  than  a  recipe, 
found  after  many  years,  for  making  what  are  called 
'  Life  Pills,'  left  by  a  celebrated  man,  who  died  in  1535, 
at  the  advanced  age  of  one  hundred  and  fifty-two  years." 

"  I  want  to  know !  Are  they  to  be  sold  in  town  ?  I 
will  certainly  try  them." 

"  They  are  advertised  for  sale  by ,  and  on  the 

morrow,  when  I  go  to  town,  I  will  call,  if  you  would 
like  to  have  me." 

"  I  should,  by  all  means." 

"Perhaps  pills  so  celebrated  may  produce  a  better 
effect  than  such  as  you  have  purchased  in  months  past, 
and  Sarah  may  yet  recover  her  health." 

"  True.  I  am  really  rejoiced  that  you  called  this 
morning  to  let  me  know  of  the  discovery.  I  should  like 
to  have  you  leave  the  paper,  that  I  may  read  the  adver 
tisement  at  my  leisure." 

The  next  day  Sumers  went  to  town,  and  called  at  the 
shop  where  the  pills  were  kept  for  sale.  The  following 
morning  he  carried  a  box  to  the  widow,  who  appeared 
exceedingly  rejoiced.  Sarah  took  a  dose  that  day,  and 
when  Charles  next  called,  her  mother  remarked,  "I 
think  these  pills  are  admirable.  See  how  much  better 
Sarah  looks,  and  she  says  she  feels  better  too.  I  think 
she  is  smarter,  and  if  she  gets  well,  you  will  certainly 
put  confidence  in  one  kind  of  pills." 

A  month  passed  away,  and  the  daughter  rapidly  recov 
ered.  Her  buoyant  spirits  revived,  the  color  came  to 
her  cheeks,  and  she  was  enabled  to  go  out.  No  praise 
was  too  great  for  Mrs.  Mason  to  bestow  on  the  wonder 
ful  medicine.  She  told  of  it  to  her  neighbors,  and  no 


324          THE  AGREEABLE  DECEPTION. 

one  could  dispute  that  they  had  a  wonderful  effect  upon 
her  child.  After  using  about  half  a  dozen  boxes,  in 
three  or  four  months,  the  girl  recovered,  and  it  was 
thought  unnecessary  to  take  more. 

It  was  whispered  round  the  village  that  Sumers  kept 
a  quantity  of  the  new  pills  at  his  store,  and  whenever 
there  was  sickness  in  the  place',  he  was  sure  to  sell  a 
number  of  boxes.  He  kept  an  exact  account  of  the 
boxes  he  sold,  and  to  whom  he  sold  them.  The  average 
amount  of  sales  was  a  hundred  dollars  a  year,  which 
was  no  inconsiderable  amount  for  a  small  town ;  but 
frequently  individuals  from  neighboring  villages  would 
call  upon  him  for  the  new  article.  And  from  many  per 
sons  to  whom  he  sold,  he  received  testimonials  of  their 
value  and  efficacy.  They  had  removed  a  hundred  dis 
orders,  and  were  taken  for  all  manner  of  diseases. 

After  a  few  years  the  sale  of  the  pills  was  very  meagre ; 
scarcely  an  individual  was  sick  in  the  village,  and  it 
was  accounted  for  by  the  use  of  the  efficacious  medicine. 
About  this  time,  Sumers,  having  amassed  some  prop 
erty,  came  to  the  conclusion  to  be  united  in  marriage  to 
the  beautiful  and  accomplished  daughter  of  the  widow, 
Sarah  Mason.  Arrangements  were  made  for  the  wed 
ding,  and  a  large  numbef  of  the  villagers  were  invited 
as  guests. 

The  evening  came,  and  the  happy  hearts  were  united. 
After  partaking  of  the  festivities  of  the  occasion,  where 
every  thing  was  joyous  and  pleasant,  the  company  were 
invited  into  a  chamber,  where  a  large  table  in  the 
centre  was  overspread  with  a  white  cloth.  The  people 
gathered  in  a  circle  around  the  room,  wondering  at  the 
singular  request,  and  anxious  to  know  what  was  on 
the  table.  Charles  stepped  up  and  removed  the  cloth, 


THE  AGEEEABLE  DECEPTION. 

when  lo !  the  table  was  loaded  with  silver  money,  sepa 
rated  into  more  than  fifty  piles,  large  and  small.  To 
each  lot  was  attached  a  piece  of  paper. 

"  Gentlemen  and  ladies,"  said  Charles,  "  you  may 
wonder  at  this  singular  proceeding,  and  be  astonished 
at  the  quantity  of  change  before  you.  But  it  is  not 
mine.  Here  are  rising  five  hundred  dollars,  and  it  be 
longs  to  you.  Some  of  you  are  the  owners  of  a  larger 
portion  than  the  others,  but  it  shall  be  divided  justly." 

The  company  looked  around  and  questioned  among 
themselves  what  this  singular  conduct  could  mean, 
when  Charles  continued,  — 

"  You  are  a  little  astonished  at  what  I  have  said,  but 
I  will  explain  it.  You  all  know  that  for  the  last  five 
or  six  years  I  have  kept  for  sale  an  article  called  the 
Life  Pill,  which  you  considered  an  invaluable  medicine. 
Those  pills  were  nothing  but  stained  peas,  which  I  put 
in  boxes  myself.  Having  so  long  deceived  you,  I  now 
refund  you  each  the  money  which  has  "been  paid  me  for 
the  worthless  article." 

He  then  commenced,  and  distributed  to  each  individ 
ual  his  portion,  which,  like  Franklin's  whistle  money,  had 
been  parted  with  so  foolishly. 

"  Some  of  you  may  censure  me,"  continued  Charles, 
"  for  the  deception  I  have  practised,  but  it  has  been  for 
your  good.  The  people  in  the  village  were  never  more 
healthy  than  at  the  present  time,  which  has  convinced 
me  that  the  pills  you  have  bought  in  years  past  contrib 
uted  to  disease.  I  have  analyzed  the  various  pills 
which  have  been  the  most  popular  over  the  country,  and 
find  their  ingredients  very  similar,  and  all  concocted  and 
vended  for  the  sole  purpose  of  making  money.  The 
pills  of  each  make  are  so  nearly  alike,  that  it  is  in  the 
>  28 


326          THE  AGREEABLE  DECEPTION. 

name  where  all  the  difference  lies ;  and  neither  of  them 
I  am  perfectly  convinced,  ever  did  or  ever  will  do  the 
least  particle  of  good.  I  have  the  testimony  of  you  all 
that  the  peas  I  have  sold  you  for  years  past  have  been  ef 
ficacious  in  removing  countless  diseases,  and  in  restoring 
your  health ;  and  I  believe  you  were  correct.  Imagina 
tion  did  the  work.  Had  I  dealt  out  the  pills  with  which 
our  community -is  flooded,  I  should  have  taken  your 
money  and  kept  it,  and,  instead  of  promoting  your  health, 
I  should  have  increased  your  disorders  and  sent  many 
of  you  to  premature  graves." 

As  Sumers  concluded,  the  whole  company  expressed 
their  admiration  of  his  course,  and  thanked  him  a 
hundred  times.  They  saw  how  easy  it  was  to  be  de 
ceived,  and  resolved  never  again  to  touch  a  single  ar 
ticle  conspicuously  advertised  in  the  newspapers,  but  if 
they  were  sick  to  employ  a  regular  physician,  and  abide 
the  consequences. 

When  the  company  retired,  Charles's  wife  and  mother 
laughed  heartily  over  the  circumstances,  for  they  had 
been  deceived  with  the  rest,  and  both  declared  they  were 
cured  of  pills  and  quack  medicines  forever. 

Charles  made  an  excellent  husband,  and  Sarah  was 
one  of  the  best  of  wives.  Peace  acd  prosperity  attended 
their  steps  and  they  were  both  respected  and  beloved  by 
the  whole  village.  Nothing  seemed  too  much  for  the 
people  to  do  for  their  welfare  and  happiness,  and  they 
all  acknowledged  for  years  after,  that  Charles  had  been 
a  great  benefactor  to  them.  He  had  saved  their  money, 
preserved  their  health,  and  made  their  path  of  life  more 
pleasant  and  happy. 

Those  who  spend  their  money  for  the  various  pills 
and  nostrums  of  the  day,  will  find  in  the  end  that  they 


THE  AGEEEABLE  DECEPTION.          327 

not  only  lose  their  money  but  their  health.  Let  no  one 
be  foolish  enough  to  purchase  those  highly  recommended 
nostrums  that  are  so  conspicuously  and  prominently 
placed  before  you  in  our  newspapers.  They  never  did, 
they  never  will,  prove  beneficial.  Their  ingredients  have 
a  deleterious  tendency.  Better  diet  yourselves,  if  un 
well,  and  exercise  yourselves  every  day  in  the  open  air. 
This  will  be  better  than  all  the  quack  medicine  in  the 
world,  and  so  you  will  confess  after  you  have  given  them 
both  a  fair  trial. 


JOB    DOBSON. 


Behold  him  with  his  treasure  there, 
His  only  comfort  and  his  care  ; 
Daily  he  counts  each  portion  o'er, 
Though  he  but  adds  a  sixpence  more. 
Poor  man !  'tis  all  his  bliss  below 
To  add,  and  watch  his  treasure  grow. 

WHEN  Job  Dobson  was  born,  whence  he  came,  or 
who  were  his  parents  we  never  knew.  It  is  sufficient 
for  our  purpose  that  such  a  being  as  Job  existed,  did 

business  in  the  town  of  B ,  made  money,  and  got 

to  himself  an  unenviable  name.  The  first  we  recollect 
of  him  was  many  years  since,  when,  passing  old  Horton, 
the  apple-man, —  everybody  knows  Horton, —  we  heard 
an  individual  vociferating  loudjy  and  vehemently  against 
the  deaf  old  gentleman  for  not  giving  him  his  right 
change ;  he  had  wronged  him,  cheated  him,  and  de 
served  a  sound  thrashing.  Stopping  a  moment  to  as 
certain  the  occasion  of  such  hard  words,  we  learned  that 
the  fellow  had  purchased  a  cent's  worth  of  apples,  gave 
Horton  fourpence  halfpenny,  and  received  five  cents 
as  his  change.  The  man  insisted  on  another  apple  for 
the  quarter  of  a  cent,  but,  on  being  refused,  he  com 
menced  the  hue  and  cry.  When  the  trouble  was  made 
known  to  the  two  or  three  spectators,  the  fellow  sneaked 
off  like  a  whipped  cur.  We  then  marked  a  man  so 


JOB  DOBSON.  329 

mean,  and  curiosity  lead  us  to  inquire  his  name.  It  was 
Job  Dobson. 

Occasionally,  in  our  intercourse  with  the  world,  we 
have  come  in  contact  with  Job,  and  wherever  we  found 
him,  he  was  disputing  bills,  insisting  on  the  half-cent, 
or  quarreling  about  the  price  of  an  article  ;  and  he  would 
invariably  look  with  a  peculiar  countenance,  as  much 
as  to  say,  "You  see  I  am  right."  But  we  always 
avoided  dealing  with  Job,  for  we  well  knew  to  have 
transactions  with  such  a  character  was  a  certain  loss. 

Dobson  ,made  money ;  and  who  cannot,  if  he  will 
Ktand  for  mills,  dispute  about  fractions,  and  neglect  the 
payment  of  debts  until  he  is  threatened  to  be  sued? 
In  a  few  years,  Job  had  picked  up  change  enough,  in 
one  way  and  another,  to  open  a  little  shop,  which  he  was 
careful  to  fill  with  those  articles  that  would  quickly  turn 
his  money,  and  yield  a  handsome  profit.  It  was  said 
that  when  he  bought  articles,  he  would  insist  upon  good, 
heavyweight  and  overflowing  measure ;  but  when  he  sold, 
he  was  extremely  careful  that  his  customers  should  not 
accuse  him  of  cheating  himself.  He  had  on  hand  two 
sets  of  weights  and  measures  —  one  for  buying,  the 
otjier  for  selling.  One  day  he  bought  some  cofiee  of  a 
sailor,  which  had  been,  smuggled  ashore,  agreeing  to 
give  him  a  specified  price  per  pound.  After  the  coffee 
had  been  carried  to  his  shop  and  weighed,  Dobson  said  to 
the  sailor,  "  I  can  give  you  but  so  much  for  this  coffee, 
now ;  that's  all  it's  worth ; "  naming  a  less  sum. 

"  But  the  agreement  was  that  I  should  have  four  or 
five  cents  more  on  a  pound,"  said  the  sailor. 

"  I  can't  help  that,"  said  Dobson.  "  You  had  no  duties 
to  pay,  and  you  may  take  what  I  offer  you,  or  I  shall 
28* 


330  JOB  DOBSON. 

complain  of  you  for  smuggling,  and  you  will  lose  the 
whole." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  tar ;  "  give  me  what  you  say, 
and  I'll  be  off." 

Dobson  was  mightily  pleased  with  his  trade.  He  said 
to  himself,  as  he  examined  the  coffee,  "  I  shall  treble 
my  money  on  this.  "Tisn't  every  one  that  knows  how  to 
work  it.  I'm  the  chap  for  trade." 

Dobson  might  have  spared  himself  those  golden  dreams 
in  this  instance  ;  for  as  soon  as  the  sailor  had  received  his 
money  he  rendered  a  complaint  against  Job,  for  purchas 
ing  coffee  which  he  knew  to  be  smuggled ;  and  for  thus 
informing  the  proper  authorities,  he  received  a  larger 
amount  than  if  Dobson  had  paid  him  what  he  agreed. 
The  poor  cheat  was  thunderstruck  when  he  learned  what 
the  sailor  had  done,  and  spit  out  his  vengeance  in  a  flood 
of  profanity ;  but  he  was  compelled  to  pay  For  his  villany, 
which  gave  him  no  peace  for  many  a  summer  day.  A 
curse  was  on  his  tongue  for  every  sailor  he  met  for  at 
least  a  twelvemonth  afterwards ;  and  when  one  entered 
his  store  he  could  hardly  refrain  from  throwing  out  his 
spite. 

This  would  have  been  a  good  lesson  to  Job,  had  he 
been  at  all  disposed  to  improve  upon  it.  But  no,  his 
love  of  gain,  his  parsimonious  disposition,  led  him  on 
to  other  deeds  of  folly  and  crime.  On  whatever  Dob- 
sou  purchased,  he  was  pretty  sure  to  make  a  large  profit. 
A  hundred-weight  of  tea,  sugar,  or  coffee,  would  turn 
out  at  least  a  hundred  and  fifteen  pounds.  He  was  de 
termined  to  make  money ;  how,  he  did  not  care,  so  long 
as  he  was  not  detected.  He  would  as  soon  take  the 
bread  from  the  widow's  or  the  orphan's  mouth  as  to  ac 
cumulate  property  in  any  other  way. 


JOB  DOBSON.  331 

Job  had  now  become  quite  independent  by  his  course 
of  cheating  and  lying,  so  that  he  was  better  able  to 
carry  on  his  knavery.  In  his  shop  he  kept  a  little  of 
every  thing, —  hats,  clothing  of  all  kinds,  shoes,  crockery, 
West  India  and  English  goods,  etc.,  etc.  He  bought 
articles  in  every  line,  whenever  he  thought  he  could 
turn  them  to  a  profitable  account.  Old  iron,  copper, 
rags,  and  whatever  the  boys  or  older  thieves  could 
plunder,  he  would  purchase  at  a  reduced  price,  and 
keep  them  concealed  until  the  inquiry  for  them  was 
silenced,  and  then  offer  them  for  sale.  In  this  way  he 
encouraged  youngsters  to  steal  whatever  they  could  lay 
their  hands  on,  such  as  lead  from  the  tops  of  houses, 
copper  spouts,  old  sails,  and  in  fine  any  thing  and  every 
thing  that  fell  in  their  way.  On  such  thing,  she  would 
more  than  treble  his  money. 

One  day,  in  the  presence  of  another,  he  bought  a  piece 
of  rope  of  a  boy,  telling  him  it  weighed  a  dozen  pounds, 
and  giving  him  twelve  cents  for  it.  Just  as  the  lad 
went  out,  a  gentleman  called  on  Dobson  for  just  such  a 
rope  as  he  saw  in  his  scales. 

"  What  do  you  ask  for  it  ?  "  inquired  the  buyer. 

"  Three  cents  a  pound." 

"  How  much  does  it  weigh  ?  " 

Dobson  turned  the  scales,  worked  on  them  a  second 
or  two,  and  said,  "  It  weighs  eighteen  pounds.'' 

The  gentleman  took  the  rope,  paid  for  it,  and  went 
away.  The  man  present  remarked,  "  I  thought  you 
just  bought  that  rope  for  twelve  pounds." 

"  Well  —  I  must  have  made  some  mistake,  then." 

This  was  the  secret  of  Job's  success ;  swindling  when 
ever  and  from  whom  he  could. 

Sometimes  Dobson  would  collect  a  variety  of  things 


332  JOB  DOBSON. 

and  carry  them  to  Boston  to  dispose  of  to  more  advan 
tage,  and  if  he  could  purchase  any  thing  there  very 
cheap,  would  return  laden  for  this  market.  It  was 
said  he  once  sent  a  quantity  of  old  junk  away,  and  to 
make  it  weigh  heavy,  occasionally  threw  into  the  bag  a 
shovelful  of  mud.  If  he  did  not  do  it,  it  was  through 
fear  of  being  detected  and  punished ;  for  of  law  he  was 
exceedingly  fearful,  since  he  had  the  difficulty  with  the 
sailor.  When  in  Boston,  Job  would  contrive  to  pay  his 
passage,  or  rather  make  the  visit  cost  him  nothing,  by 
purloining  trifling  things  wherever  he  purchased. 
Having  large  pockets  to  his  coat,  he  could  slip  in  a 
half-pound  of  silk,  a  few  papers  of  needles,  or  three  or 
four  fine  handkerchiefs,  when  he  was  unnoticed.  It 
was  said  he  usually  pursued  this  course,  which  made 
him  purchase  goods  in  Boston  oftener  than  he  other 
wise  would,  and  remain  there  for  a  longer  time. 

Dobson  grew  wealthy  rapidly,  but  with  all  his  riches 
he  was  an  extremely  ignorant  man.  He  could  scarcely 
read ;  his  penmanship  was  on  a  par  with  his  read 
ing,  and  his  knowledge  of  figures  extremely  limited. 
Sell  him  a  few  articles,  and  he  would  be  longer  in  com 
ing  to  their  value  than  a  schoolboy  eight  years  old,  but 
he  never  made  a  mistake,  excepting  in  his  own  favor. 
He  would  add  up  and  subtract  and  divide  a  dozen 
times,  if  he  were  not  perfectly  satisfied  that  he  should 
not  be  the  loser. 

When  Dobson  purchased  his  house,  he  began  to  look 
about  for  a  wife.  His  habits  were  so  coarse,  and  his 
manners  so  unrefined,  that  few  females  would  have  any 
thing  to  say  to  him,  and  those  who  did  were  partial  to 
his  money.  His  looks  were  any  thing  but  agreeable. 
Meanness  —  meanness  —  meanness  —  was  stamped  on 


JOB  DOBSON.  333 

every  part  of  him,  from  the  crown  of  his  head  to  the  sole 
of  his  foot ;  and  it  was  conspicuous  in  all  he  said,  in  all 
he  did.  And  females  —  to  their  credit  be  it  said  —  can 
overlook  nearly  every  fault  in  a  man  but  this  one,  which 
is  so  despicable  that  few  will  give  it  the  least  countenance. 
Well,  after  inviting  one  and  another  without  success, 
to  accompany  him  on  a  party  of  pleasure,  or  to  attend 
some  concert,  when  it  would  not  cost  him  more  than  a 
shilling,  he  finally  succeeded  in  obtaining  the  consent 
of  Miss  Dolly  Daton  to  accompany  him  to  the  Bowery. 
They  were  as  happy  as  their  dispositions  would  allow 
them  to  be  ;  but  when  Dobson  learned  that  the  dinner 
would  cost  them  a  shilling  apiece,  he  was  in  a  world  of 
trouble.  He  sat  down  and  thought.  After  rising  from 
his  brown  study,  he  told  Dolly  that  his  business  was 
urgent  in  town,  and  he  should  not  be  able  to  stop  to 
dinner.  The  horse  was  harnessed,  and,  after  beating 
down  old  Davis  from  twenty-five  cents  to  a  shilling, 
Dobson  and  his  girl  started  for  home.  Dolly  was  re 
joiced  when  she  arrived  at  her  door,  and  declared  to 
herself  that  it  was  the  last  time  she  would  ever  be  seen 
in  company  with  a  mean  man,  and  ever  after  would  not 
speak  to  Job  when  she  met  him.  It  was  more  than  six 
months  ere  Dobson  ceased  to  be  troubled  at  the  expense 
occasioned  by  his  visit  to  the  Cape. 

Finally  Job  got  a  wife,  and  was  married  at  the  min 
ister's.  She  was  from  the  country,  and  a  stranger  in 
the  place,  or  she  would  never  have  consented  to  be 
chained  to  such  a  man  as  Dobson.  He  would  allow  but 
just  so  much  in  his  house  at  a  time,  and  be  grumbling 
eternally  about  the  waste  of,  flour  and  meal.  To  save 
expense,  he  would  permit  but  a  certain  quantity  of  wood 
to  be  consumed  daily,  entertained  no  company,  eat  but 


334  JOB  DOBSON. 

little  butter,  dispensed  with  milk,  and  sweetened  his 
tea  in  the  pot.  Occasionally,  he  had  milk,  when  he 
could  buy  it  by  the  gallon,  and  pay  for  it  from  the  store, 
with  some  article  on  which  he  made  two  hundred  per 
cent.  It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  Job  and  his  wife 
lived  miserably  unhappy.  She  had  a  kind  heart,  and 
was  inclined  to  be  generous,  but  she  was  cramped  in 
all  she  attempted  to  do,  and  never  expended  a  cent 
without  letting  her  husband  know  what  she  bought. 
Girls  sometimes  think  they  are  made  for  this  life  if  they 
secure  wealthy  husbands ;  but,  when  too  late,  they  find 
their  mistake.  So  found  the  wife  of  Dobson,  but  she 
made  the  best  of  it,  and  never  told  her  deprivations  and 
sorrows  to  others. 

Job  would  seldom  permit  his  wife  to  go  shopping 
alone,  for  fear  she  would  pay  too  high  for  her  articles. 
Once  she  purchased  some  calico  for  twelve  and  a  half  cents 
per  yard  to  make  her  a  dress.  After  an  examination, 
Job  declared  that  it  was  worth  but  twelve  cents  at  the 
most,  and  insisted  that  his  wife  should  return  it.  In 
vain  did  she  plead,  but  her  husband  was  inexorable,  and 
the  poor  woman  was  obliged  to  carry  the  calico  back. 
The  shopkeeper  refused  to  take  it ;  but,  according  to 
instructions,  she  left  it  on  the  counter.  Dobson,  in  a 
great  rage,  went  down  to  the  merchant  and  demanded 
his  money.  But  he  insisted  in  vain,  denounced  the 
shopkeeper  as  a  cheat,  declaring  he  would  never  pur 
chase  of  him  again,  and  came  off,  muttering  and  swear 
ing  as  he  went  along  with  the  calico.  His  poor  wife 
never  heard  the  last  of  the  bargain,  and  never  again 
ventured  to  buy  without  special  instructions  from  Job. 

Dobson  took  a  newspaper  one  year,  and  paid  for  it 
in  his  way ;  but  when  the  carrier  boy,  who  had  been 


JOB  DOBSON.  335 

faithful  to  leave  his  paper  every  week,  in  storm  and 
sunshine,  heat  and  cold,  handed  him  an  address  on 
New  Year's  day,  Job  looked  daggers  at  him.  "  What 
does  this  mean,  boy  ?  " 

"  The  New  Year's  Address,  sir,"  said  the  lad. 

"  You  give  it  to  me,  I  suppose." 

"  No,  sir ;  we  expect  a  little  change  for  it." 

"  Then  I  don't  want  the  stuff,"  said  Job,  as  he  threw 
it  in  the  little  fellow's  face.'  "  I  pay  for  the  paper,  and 
that  is  enough  without  your  sponging  in  this  way." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  boy,  as  he  walked  off,  whistling 
to  himself.  But  he  ever  after  marked  Job  as  a  mean 
and  contemptible  wretch. 

Once  Dobson  let  two  chambers  of  his  house  to  a  poor 
widow,  and  as  regularly  as  the  quarter-day  arrived,  he 
was  at  the  door  for  his  pay.  Once  it  was  not  ready, 
and  he  threatened  to  turn  her  out  of  doors,  and  it  was 
only  by  a  great  deal  of  persuasion,  and  the  promise  that 
he  should  receive  a  trifle  for  his  indulgence,  that  she 
was  permitted  to  remain. 

Whenever  a  hand  was  employed  about  Job's  house, 
in  repairing  or  painting  it,  he  was  always  present  to 
oversee  the  work,  and  notice  if  the  mechanic  was  idle 
for  a  moment.  He  would  purchase  materials  and  pay 
out  of  the  shop,  as  was  his  invariable  custom.  •  Dobson 
never,  to  our  knowledge,  bought  a  single  article  or  em 
ployed  a  single  man,  unless  he  settled  for  the  whole 
in  goods,  without  expending  a  dollar  in  cash.  Sel 
dom  did  he  employ  a  mechanic  who  left  him  without 
having  a  dispute.  He  would  never  hold  to  his  agree 
ment,  but  endeavor  to  pay  as  little  as  he  could  for  the 
work  done.  For  all  that  he  could  possibly  do  for  him 
self,  he  was  careful  not  to  pay  another.  He  sawed  his 


336  JOB   DOBSON. 

own  wood,  wheeled  home  his  own  flour,  and  did  his  own 
menial  work,  unless  he  could  contrive  to  pay  out  of  his 
shop  in  such  articles  as  yielded  him  a  great  profit ;  then, 
and  not  otherwise,  would  he  employ  poor  laborers. 

When  Dobson  wished  to  make  a  good  trade,  and 
could  not  succeed  with  the  merchant,  or  trader,  he 
would  endeavor  to  connive  with  his  clerks.  Many  a 
time  has  he  gone  into  stores  when  he  knew  the  owners 
were  at  their  meals,  endeavoring  to  trade  with  the  boys, 
in  the  mean  time,  filling  his  pockets  with  nuts  or  apples, 
or  eating  his  fill  from  the  raisin-cask,  the  cheese-case, 
or  the  sugar-box.  So  in  the  market  he  would  go  round 
from  cart  to  cart,  not  wishing  to  buy,  but  try  the  apples, 
the  berries,  the  butter,  the  cheese,  or  whatever  the  farm 
ers  had,  and  often  in  this  way  has  Job  made  out  a  good 
dinner,  without  it  costing  him  a  farthing. 

Dobson  liked  to  make  a  good  appearance,  and  to  be 
thought  much  of  by  the  people ;  he  accordingly  hired 
part  of  a  pew  in  one  of  our  churches,  and  went  regu 
larly  to  meeting,  excepting  on  those  days  when  it  was 
given  out  that  a  contribution  would  be  taken  up ;  then 
he  was  always  absent. 

The  collector  of  the  parish  had  much  difficulty  in  ob 
taining  the  amount  of  Job's  tax,  and  often  said,  "  He 
was  more  trouble  to  him  than  all  the  rest  of  the  parish." 
For  such  debts  must  be  paid  in  money ;  but  Dobson 
declared,  time  and  again,  that  he  would  quit  the  church 
unless  he  could  pay  for  preaching  out  of  his  shop.  There 
was  never  a  bill  presented  to  him  that  he  did  not  either 
dispute,  or  neglect  to  pay,  till  the  trouble  of  sending  it 
was  worth  nearly  as  much  as  the  bill  amounted  to. 

By  pursuing  such  a  course,  Dobson  grew  rich  rapidly 
and  was  worth  a  considerable  amount  of  property.  His 


JOB   DOBSON.  887 

wife,  who  had  been  a  faithful  slave  to  him,  became  sick, 
and  without  proper  treatment  —  for  Job  would  not  em 
ploy  a  physician  or  nurse,  if  he  could  possibly  avoid  it 
—  she  lingered  a  few  weeks,  and  then  died.  It  left  no 
impression  on  Dobson's  mind,  save  the  expense  he  should 
incur.  After  his  wife  had  been  buried,  and  her  friends 
had  borne  the  expense,  he  refused  to  pay  them.  He 
even  declared  that  the  bill  for  rough  boards  'that  con 
tained  her  mortal  part,  should  not  be  paid  by  him, 
as  he  did  not  order  them.  Every  one  said  the  poor 
woman  was  better  off,  that  she  was  kindly  released-  from 
a  world  of  sorrow  by  One  who  took  pity  upon  her. 

The  character  of  Dobson  had  become  so  well  known, 
that  his  name  was  associated  with  all  that  was  low, 
mean,  and  grovelling  in  human  nature.  His  meanness, 
his  avarice,  his  ignorance,  his  cheating,  all  went  to  make 
up  a  character  that  everybody  detested.  As  he  passed 
the  street,  the  very  boys  turned  aside  with  fear,  and 
looked  on  him  as  an  inhabitant  of  a  darker  world.  Men 
would  exclaim,  when  an  act  of  meanness  was  commit 
ted-,  "  You  are  as  bad  as  old  Dobson,"  while  the  fe 
males  turned  away  from  his  presence,  and  laughed  at 
the  "  old  fool."  Since  the  death  of  his  'wife,  Dobson 
has  endeavored  to  find  another  companion  ;  he  is  too  well 
known.  With  all  his  money,  he  is  now  shunned,  and 
looked  upon  by  females  as  a  creature  too  grovelling  to 
claim  affinity  to  humanity.  Long  since  he  gave  up 
trade,  and  lives  on  the  income  of  his  property  and  the 
interest  of  his  money.  His  looks,  his  acts,  now  'pro- 
,  claim  him  the  victim  of  despair.  In  the  midst  of 
wealth,  he  is  pining  away  in  sorrow  and  want.  With 
all  the  comforts,  with  all  the  blessings  of  life  within 
reach,  he  refuses  to  secure  them,  and  is  drinking  the 
29 


338  JOB  DOBSON. 

bitted  dregs  of  poverty.  Still  adding  to  his  thousands, 
he  is  fearful  that  he  shall  come  to  want,  that  his  im 
mense  riches  will  be  wrested  from  him  by  some  means 
or  another,  and  that  want  will  be  his  inevitable  doom. 

Such  is  the  folly,  such  the  madness  of  men.  They 
will  chase  a  phantom  through  life,  but  never  grasp  it, 
and  are  constantly  miserable.  To  be  mean  and  to  be 
happy,  is  impossible.  The  kind  and  benevolent  enjoy 
life,  make  friends,  and  pass  their  days  in  peace,  amid 
sunshine  and  flowers. 

Everybody,  by  pursuing  a  course  like  the  hero  of  our 
story,  can  become  rich,  but  he  must  forego  the  blessing 
of  life,  and  be  the  victim  of  sorrow  and  despair.  To 
court  wealth  is  to  court  misery,  to  secure  the  ill-will 
and  the  hatred  of  mankind,  and  to  pass  through  life 
a  detested  thing,  whose  presence  will  contaminate, 
whose  friendship  will  destroy.  Be  contented  with  vir 
tuous  poverty ;  pursue  the  even  tenor  of  your  ways,  as 
your  means  will  allow,  and  as  opportunities  present, 
and  you  will  secure  the  love  and  esteem  of  man,  the 
approbation  of  God,  and  finally  die  lamented  by  a  world 
which  you  have  made  better  and  happier  by  your  gen 
erous  deeds,'  your  consistent  life,  and  your  blessed  ex 
ample. 


THE  REVENGE. 


How  few  who  speak  a  bitter  word 

Can  tell  the  pang  it  gives  ! 
What  angry  feelings  it  hath  stirred ! 

What  malice  it  revives  ! 
Like  a  barbed  arrow,  sure  and  deep, 

It  sinketh  in  the  breast, 
And  though  for  years  it  seems  to  sleep, 
*  'Tis  an  unquiet  guest. 

"  No,  I  cannot  learn  a  trade,"  said  Clara  to  her  mother, 
sobbing ;  "  I  cannot  do  it.  What  will  people  say,  when 
they  hear  that  one  of  the  Howels  has  gone  into  a  tailor's 
shop,  or  a  mantuamaker's  to  work  ?  Oh,  I  can't  do  it ; 
I  can't  learn  a  trade." 

"  You  do  not  realize,  my  child,"  said  her .  mother. 
"  that  I  am  unable  to  support  you  and  the  other  chil 
dren,  now  your  father  is  dead,  and  that  something  must 
be  done,  or  we  shall  soon  be  in  want  of  the  necessaries 
of  life.  Would  you  not  rather  learn  a  trade  than  to 
have  it  said  that  we  were  supported  by  charity  ? " 

"  You  can  get  along,  mother,  without  thinking  about 
my  working  in  a  shop.  We  have  never  wanted  for  any 
thing." 

"  The  little  your  father  left  me  is  almost  gone ;  by 
the  utmost  care  and  prudence  it  will  not  last  over  a 
twelvemonth  longer,  and  then  we  shall  be  sadly  off  with- 


340  THE  EEVENGE. 

out  any  income.  You  must  learn  a  trade,  Clara ;  and 
you  may  as  well  consent  to  it  first  as  last." 

"No  —  no  —  I  cannot,"  said  the  proud  girl,  sobbing 
still  louder,  "  I  cannot  do  it.  "What  would  the  girls  say 
to  see  me  go  to  a  milliner's  shop  ?  They  would  all 
laugh  at  me.  0  mother,  I  don't  see  how  you  can  ex 
pect  me  to  do  it.  I  would  willingly  take  in  nice  sew 
ing,  do  a  little  lace  work,  or  teach  painting,  or  keep  a 
school,  if  I  was  competent,  but  I  cannot,  I  cannot  learn 
a  trade." 

"  My  child,  you  talk  very  foolish  indeed.  "Who  would 
laugh  at  you  for  working  ?  Not  one  of  your  acquaint 
ances.  They  would  commend  you  for  it.  Now,  it  is 
frequently  thrown  in  my  teeth,  that  I  support  two  or 
three  girls  in  idleness,  who  are  able  to  earn  their  own 
living  —  that  I  wish  to  bring  them  up  as  ladies,  to  the 
ruin  of  them  and  myself.  There  is  a  great  deal  of 
truth,  I  confess  in  what  they  say,  and  I  feel  ashamed 
of  it.  If  I  were  rich,  and  able  to  furnish  you  with 
suitable  clothing,  I  would  not  make  this  request  of  you, 
—  but  as  it  is,  you  must  do  something  soon,  and  you 
better  make  up  your  mind  to  do  it  cheerfully." 

"  Well,  I  can't  learn  a  trade,"  said  the  daughter,  still 
crying,  "  I  will  do  any  thing  else." 

"  You  must  do  it,  or  be  compelled  to  live  on  the 
charities  of  others." 

"  If  three  or  four  of  my  acquaintances  would  go  to 
work  in  a  shop  with  me,  I  should  not  hesitate  to  go." 

"  But  the  parents  of  most  of  your  acquaintances  are 
rich,  and  there  is  not  so  much  necessity  of  their  learn 
ing  a  trade.  Your  schoolmate,  Jane  Carlton,  has  just 
gone  into  a  shop,  and  I  understand  it  was  by  her  partic 
ular  request." 


THE  EEVENGE.  341 

"Jane  Carlton  is  nobody;  she  never  was  thought 
much  of,  and  she  has  always  been  used  to  such  kind  of 
work.  I  hope  you  do  not  put  her  on  an  equal  with  me." 

"  Certainly,  Clara,  she  is  your  equal.  I  am  no  better 
off  than  her  mother.  She  is  poor  and  so  am  I ;  and  if 
it  was  not  too  humiliating  for  Jane  to  learn  a  trade, 
certainly  it  will  not  be  for  you." 

"  How  you  talk,  mother.  When  father  was  alive,  we 
were  well  off,  and  had  every  thing  we  needed;  but 
Jane's  mother  has  always  been  poor,* and  she  has  always 
associated  with  a  low  set  of  girls." 

"  Who  do  you  call  low,  Clara  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  Hodge  children,  and  the  Nortons,  and 
some  others." 

"  They  are  poor,  I  know,  but  certainly  they  are  far 
from  being  despised,  and  all  of  them  are  honorable  and 
industrious  girls.  With  all  their  poverty,  so  long  as 
they  are  virtuous  and  behave  themselves,  they  will  com 
mand  respect.  Now,  my  child,  you  must  give  up  your 
false  notions,  and  conclude  to  do  something  to  gain  a 
support." 

"I  can't  learn  a  trade,  and  'there  is  an  end  of  it," 
said  Clara,  and  she  left  the  room  a  little  angry  with 
her  judicious  mother. 

Mrs.  Howel  had  been  a  widow  some  eight  or  ten  years. 
Her  husband  was  a  mechanic,  and  made  a  good  living 
by  his  trade.  He  even  laid  up  a  few  hundred  dollars, 
which  had  supported  his  wife  and  three  children,  with 
what  little  sewing  Mrs.  Howel  did,  for  the  few  past  years. 
Clara  was  the  oldest  child,  and,  as  the  family  grew  up, 
and  needed  more  clothing,  her  mother  had  been  talking 
with  her  of  the  importance  of  learning  a  trade,  for  it 
was  now  impossible  for  her  with  her  own  hands  to  earn 
29* 


342  THE  REVENGE. 

enough  to  support  them  all.  Clara  knew  the  situation 
of  the  family,  and  yet  was  too  proud  to  work  in  a  shop 
and  endeavor  in  this  way  to  assist  her  poor  mother.  She 
had  hoped  to  continue  in  her.  present  easy  circumstances 
until  something  should  occur  which  would  place  her 
in  a  situation  where  she  would  not  be  obliged  'to  go  out 
and  work ;  she  might  have  some  property  left  her  by  her 
relations,  who  were  wealthy,  or  she  might  get  married. 
But  any  thing  was  preferable  to  learning  a  trade. 

Month  aftor  month  passed  away,  and  still  Clara  would 
not  give  her  consent  to  work  in  a  shop,  when  one  day  her 
mother  said  to  her,  "  My  child,  I  have  come  to  the  con 
clusion  to  have  you  loarn  a  trade.  My  friends  have  won 
dered  at  my  keeping  you  at  home  doing  nothing,  while 
I  have  to  work  so  hard  to  support  you  and  the  other  chil 
dren  ;  they  say  I  must  never  expect  any  assistance  from 
them  while  I  permit  you  to  live  in  such  idle  habits.  I 
am  ashamed  when  they  speak  to  me  about  it,  for  I  am 
sensible  of  the  correctness  of  what  they  say,  and  that  you 
ought  to  earn  your  own  living.  You  must  make  up  your 
mind  before  another  week  to  go  to  a  trade." 

Now  came  a  flood  of  tears  to  Clara's  eyes,  as  she  said, 
"  I  cannot  do  it.  It  would  be  a  disgrace  to  the  name 
of  Howel  if  I  should  attempt  it." 

"  You  must  do  it,  Clara,  and  there  is  an  end  of  it." 

"  No ;  I  will  starve  first,  mother !  I  will  not  go  into 
a  shop  to  work ;  any  light  sewing  I  will  do  with  pleas 
ure  ;  but  as  to  learning  a  trade,  I  will  never  consent  to 
do  it." 

In  vain  did  her  mother  advise  and  entreat  her ;  but 
she  persisted  in  her  determination  not  to  obey  her  and 
work.  The  consequence  of  her  course  was  laid  before 
her.  Perhaps  sh.3  would  be  left  alone  in  the  world  for 


THE  REVENGE.  343 

her  younger  sisters  to  look  up  to,  and  in  that  case,  if  she 
had  no  means  of  support,  the  poorhouse  must  bring  her 
up  at  last.  But  Clara  did  not  care ;  her  friends  would 
not  let  her  come  to  want ;  she  should  be  provided  for. 
What  little  sewing  her  mother  could  obtain  for  Clara, 
which  the  proud  girl  thought  respectable,  and  without 
daring  to  lisp  it  to  any  one,  she  would  do ;  but  it  was  a 
trifle  indeed  that  she  earned. 

Mrs.  Howel  had  become  quite  poor ;  but  her  daughter 
to  appear  respectable  and  carry  out  her  foolish  caprices 
and  whims,  would  often  stint  her  food  to  clothe  her 
back,  and  make  what  she  considered  a  decent  appearance 
ia  society.  As  Clara  was  quite  pretty  and  appeared 
well,  she  was  waited  upon  by  two  or  three  young  men, 
but  they  were  not  altogether  to  her  fancy.  They 
were  children  of  mechanics,  who  had  been  brought  up  to 
some  laborious  pursuits,  and  their  hands  were  too  rough, 
or  their  countenances  too  sunburnt,  or  their  prospects 
were  too  slim.  There  was  one  young  man  in  particular 
who  was  strongly  attached  to  Clara.  His  name  was 
Henry  Watson,  a  steady  and  industrious  youth.  He  of 
fered  himself  to  her. 

"  What !  "  said  the  proud  girl,  "  do  you  think  I  would 
have  a  miserable  tool  of  a  mechanic  ?  Do  you  mean  to 
insult  me  ?  "  and  her  temper  was  kindled  to  its  highest 
pitch  as  she  told  him  to  leave  the  house.  Henry  was 
ill  prepared  for  such  treatment  from  one  he  had  always 
esteemed,  and  whom  he  tenderly  loved. 

"  Clara,"  said  he,  as  he  left  the  house,  "  you  will 
regret  the  manner  in  which  you  have  treated  me.  Re 
member  what  I  say,  you  will  regret  it,"  but  she  would 
not  hear  another  word,  and  the  young  mechanic  went 
away,  resolved  .to  be  diligent  in  business,  and  secure  a 


344  THE  REVENGE. 

partner  more  worthy  of  himself ;  which  we  are  happy  to 
say  he  soon  found,  and  never  had  occasion  to  regret  his 
choice.  He  removed  from  the  town  to  a  larger  place, 
where  his  business  increased,  and  he  became  independent 
in  his  circumstances. 

Clara  had  set  her  cap  for  a  gentleman,  a  law  student, 
a  minister,  or  a  merchant,  she  was  not  very  particulai 
which,  so  long  as  he  dressed  well,  talked  fashionably 
about  the  splendid  parties,  the  beautiful  girls,  and  the 
respectability  of  his  business.  But  Clara  was  doomed 
to  be  disappointed.  Her  mother  had  become  so  reduced 
in  her  circumstances,  that  she  had  by  degrees  sold  off 
her  furniture,  so  that  but  very  little  remained  in  the 
house.  Her  other  children,  not  having  the  same  notion 
which  was  so  unfortunate  in  Clara,  had  just  gone  to 
trades,  one  to  a  milliner,  the  other  to  a  mantuamaker. 
It  would  be  many  months  before  they  would  earn  any 
thing  for  themselves,  and  it  was  as  much  as  the  mother 
could  do  to  support  the  family.  At  this  period  she  told 
Clara  that  she  was  fearful  of  being  obliged  to  call  on  the 
parish  for  help,  and  that  unless  she  would  consent  to  do 
something,  her  friends  would  never  help  her.  But  the 
haughty  Clara  still  persisted  in  having  her  own  way, 
and  even  censured  her  mother  for  permitting  her  younger 
sisters  to  learn  trades. 

In  a  day  or  two  after  this  conversation  Mrs.  Howel 
was  taken  sick,  and,  as  her  neighbors  called  in,  they  were 
surprised  at  her  destitute  circumstances.  They  did  not 
permit  her  to  suffer  for  any  thing  she  needed  for  her 
comfort,  and  Clara  was  as  attentive  as  possible  to  her 
mother.  She  appeared  to  grow  worse  day  by  day.  A 
relation  of  her  husband  kindly  consented  ,to  take  her 
two  daughters,  who  were  at  trades,  saying  they  should 


THE  REVENGE.  345 

be  welcome  to  their  board  till  their  trades  were  com 
pleted.  This  was  a  great  relief  to  the  poor  woman,  who 
seemed  to  get  no  better,  although  she  received  the  best 
of  attendance.  After  lingering  a  few  months,  Mrs. 
Howel  died.  Her  last  advice  to  Clara  was  to  learn  some 
trade,  that  she  might  earn  her  own  living. 

"  You  cannot  expect  to  find  such  a  friend  as  your 
mother,"  said  she ;  "  and  in  the  world  you  will  have 
much  to  encounter.  If  you  still  indulge  in  your  foolish 
pride,  it  will  eventually  prove  your  ruin;  but  if  you 
look  upon  yourself  as  you  are,  a  poor,  dependent  girl, 
and  endeavor  to  do  what  is  right,  you  will  gain  friends, 
and  succeed  in  what  you  undertake.  Above  all,  be  hum 
bled  at  the  feet  of  your  Saviour,  and  learn  meekness 
of  him,  and  do  what  he  commands  you,  and  at  last  you 
will  meet  me  in  heaven." 

Clara  was  deeply  affected  at  the  death  of  her  mother, 
as  were  also  her  sisters.  They  followed  her  to  the  nar 
row  house  appointed  for  all  living,  and  came  away  with 
sad  hearts.  Clara  went  to  the  chamber  recently  occu 
pied  by  her  mother,  and  sat  down  in  her  loneliness  and 
wept.  Now  she  thought  of  the  advice  of  her  excellent 
parent,  and  how  little  she  had  regarded  it,  what  sorrow 
she  had  brought  upon  her,  and  the  anxiety  she  caused 
her  during  her  sickness.  "  Oh,  that  I  had  been  more  obe 
dient,  and  appreciated  her  worth !  "  she  exclaimed  in  an 
agony  of  feeling ;  and  she  retired  to  rest  to  lose  her  sor 
row  in  the  arms  of  sleep. 

Clara  occupied  the  house  in  which  her  mother  died 
some  few  months,  occasionally  doing  some  fine  sewing. 
When  her  sisters  had  completed  their  trades,  they  all 
kept  house,  and  lived  comfortably.  Time  passed  on, 
and  the  young  women  with  trades  h&d  worked  hard  and 


346  THE  REVENGE. 

laid  by  a  little  money.  Their  habits  were  noticed  by 
two  brothers  who  were  in  business  for  themselves,  and 
had  accumulated  a  little  property  by  industry  and  econ 
omy,  and  they  offered  themselves  to  the  young  women, 
who  accepted,  and  the  girls  became  the  happy  wives  of 
virtuous  and  kind-hearted  men. 

Clara  now  went  to  reside  with  one  of  her  sisters,  and 
was  obliged  to  do  most  of  her  work  in  the  kitchen,  for 
the  wife  continued  to  do  something  at  her  trade,  when 
ever  a  friend  brought  in  a  garment.  She  thus  materi 
ally  assisted  her  husband ;  and  while  they  both  exerted 
themselves  it  could  not  be  otherwise  than  they  should 
prosper. 

Though  her  sister  did  all  she  could  for  her,  Clara 
seemed  to  be  unhappy.  She  probably  felt  she  had  done 
wrong  in  not  going  to  a  trade  when  her  mother  so  ur 
gently  requested  her.  Indeed,  she  expressed  her  regret 
to  her  sister.  If  she  had  been  less  proud  and  more  obe 
dient,  she  might  have  been  as  pleasantly  situated  her 
self.  She  felt  that  she  had  thought  too  much  of  her 
name  and  what  people  would  say,  especially  those  young 
women  who  now  did  not  care  a  fig  for  her,  or,  if  she 
were  in  the  utmost  need,  would  not  raise  a  finger,  or 
go  a  rod,  to  render  her  assistance.  She  might  have  been 
the  happy  partner  of  a  young  man  who  had  once  solic 
ited  her  hand,  but  who,  on  being  rejected,  doubtless 
blessed  his  stars,  and  found  a  devoted  wife  and  an  agree 
able  companion  in  the  person  of  Jane  Carlton,  the  young 
woman  once  so  lightly  esteemed  by  Clara,  but  a  pattern 
of  industry  and  moral  worth,  though  in  humble  circum 
stances.  To  see  her  sisters  and  some  of  her  companions 
she  once  passed  with  scorn,  become  so  pleasantly  and 
happily  situated  in  life,  was  calculated  to  leave  no  pleas- 


THE  EEVENGE.  347 

ant  reflection  on  the  mind  of  Clara.  She  say  and  she 
realized  what  she  had  lost  by  her  proud  spirit,  and  it 
was  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  she  was  unhappy,  that 
she  was  sour  and  morose  in  her  disposition,  and  that 
all  the  little  children  ran  from  her  trembling  with  fear. 
Clara  had  now  arrived  at  the  age  of  thirty-five ;  but  by 
the  disposition  which  she  had  nurtured,  and  the  unpleas 
ant  feelings  in  which  she  had  indulged,  she  appeared  a 
great  deal  older.  It  was  the  thought  of  her  former  con 
duct  and  the  course  she  had  pursued  in  her  early  years, 
when  she  was  too  proud  to  learn  a  trade,  when  requested 
by  one  of  the  best  of  parents,  that  preyed  so  deeply  on  her 
spirits.  She  had  rejected,  too,  the  attentions  of  two  or 
three  young  men  who  were  then  starting  in  life  with  a 
small  income,  but  who  were  now  in  good  circumstances, 
making  a  handsome  living,  and  were  blessed  with  kind 
and  happy  companions.  To  realize  that  all  the  blessings 
of  life  had  once  been  within  her  reach  and  that  she  had 
rejected  them,  was  no  agreeable  subject  to  reflect  upon. 
And  she  was  growing  old,  and  the  prospect  was  that  she 
would  become  what  she  had  always  despised,  and  what 
*she  .once  was  certain  she  should  never  become  —  an  old 
maid.  As  she  thought  over  the  matter  day  by  day,  and 
saw  how  rapidly  her  face  was  wrinkling,  her  hair  turn- 
ing^rav,  her  teeth  decaying,  and  the  color  departing 
IrqAliiT. cheeks,  she  came  to  the  conclusion,  if  ever  her 
hancffijbuld  be  solicited  in  marriage  again,  to  accept  of 
the  very  first  offer.  Any  husband  would  be  better  than 
none,  and  then  the  disgrace  of  dying  an  old  maid  would 
be  destroyed.  Clara  had  so  often  put  on  her  best  dress, 
and  trimmed  up  as  spruce  as  possible  for  the  last  few 
years,  if  haply  she  might  entrap  a  beau,  that  she  had 
wellnigh  despaired  of  accomplishing  her  object.  But, 


348  THE  REVENGE. 

"  Never  despair  while  there  is  life,"  was  her  motto,  and  she 
persevered  in  her  endeavors  to  obtain  the  desideratum. 
Failing  in  all  her  efforts,  aijd  the  years  going  rapidly  by, 
she  at  last  turned  another  corner  in  her  life — she  reached 
the  age  of  forty  years.  During  the  past  fifteen  or  twenty 
years,  she  had  resided  with  her  sisters,  doing  the  house 
work,  and  assisting  them  in  various  ways,  while  they 
supported  her.  Clara,  or,  as  we  ought  to  call  her  now, 
Miss  Howel,  had  become  so  soured  in  her  disposition 
and  temper,  that  she  would  scold  the  children  for  some 
trifling  thing,  if  not  give  them  a  slap,  and  even  speak 
unkindly  to  her  sisters  and  friends.  She  had  become  so 
disagreeable  that  very  few  indeed  had  any  love  or  sym 
pathy  for  her ;  and  when  she  went  to  visit  a  friend,  she 
generally  left  in  a  miff,  or  gave  some  one  present  a  se 
vere  reprimand  for  some  supposed  misbehavior.  She 
was  a  stanch  old  maid,  and  had  become  the  butt  of  rid 
icule  in  the  neighborhood,  so  that  a  thousand  jokes  were 
perpetrated  upon  her  by  those  who  knew  her  disposi 
tion  and  conduct. 

As  the  years  flew  by,  and  the  prospect  became  more 
slim  for  her  to  change  her  situation  and  secure  a  com 
panion,  the  more  strenuous  were  her  efforts  to  appear 
agreeable  to  strangers.  Whenever  she  heard  of  a  wid 
ower  that  she  could  visit,  or  a  gentleman  who  had  passed 
the  meridian  of  life  unmarried,  she  would  coi 
introduced,  or  to  cross  his  track  with  her  best  i^Jear- 
ance,  so  as  to  attract  attention  ;  but  all  in  vain ;  no  one 
seemed  to  notice  poor  Miss  Howel,  or  to  care  a  copper 
farthing  for  her. 

Time  cannot  be  stayed  in  its  flight,  otherwise  Clara 
would  never  have  passed  her  twenty-fifth  birthday ;  but 
the  tide  rolled  on,  and  she  was  now  in  her  forty-fifth  year, 


THE  REVENGE.  349 

and  not  married ;  but  still  she  hoped ;  trimmed. her  dress ; 
consulted  her  glass,  and  endeavored  to  walk  as  spry  as 
ever.  But  Miss  Howel  was  an  old  maid,  and  every 
body  knew  it. 

One  day  in  her  favorite  walks  she  met  a  gentleman 
who  appeared  to  be  about  her  own  age,  who  inquired 
where  a  neighbor  of  hers  resided.  She  informed  him, 
while  he  kindly  thanked  her,  smiled,  and  went  on. 
"  Who  knows,"  thought  Clara,  "  but  he  is  in  search  of 
a  wife,  and  merely  asked  that  question  as  a  kind  of  in 
troduction  to  me  ?  He  is  a  splendid  gentleman !  What 
an  eye !  What  a  manly  brow !  But  I  will  ascertain 
of  Mrs.  Foster  to-night."  In  her  pleasant  reverie,  Miss 
Howel  passed  on,  dreaming  of  pleasure  yet  to  come. 

That  night  found  Clara  anxiously  inquiring  of  her 
neighbor  respecting  the  stranger.  •  Mrs.  Foster,  who 
knew  her  peculiarities,  joked  her  so  seriously  about  get 
ting  a  husband,  that  Miss  Howel  was  quite  offended,  and 
rose  to  .go  out  in  a  pet  at  the  moment  the  stranger  en 
tered  the  door.  He  was  introduced  to  Clara  as  Mr. 
Jameson,  a  distant  relative  of  hers.  Clara  was  now  full 
of  smiles ;  she  sat  down  and  conversed  as  rapidly  as  she 
was  accustomed  to,  for  upwards  of  an  hour,  and  then  de 
parted,  after  strongly  inviting  Mr.  Jameson  to  call  and 
see  her.  The  stranger  was  said  to  be  a  single  man  and 
quite  wealthy.  He  had  travelled  much,  and  been  con 
versant  with  all  classes  and  conditions  of  men.  He  had 
studied  human  nature,  and  could  read  Clara  through 
and  through. 

In  a  day  or  two  he  called  on  Clara,  and  was  free  and 

sociable.     She  returned  his 'visit;  and  the  story  soon 

spread  around  the  neighborhood  that  Miss  Howel  was 

engaged.    The  story  pleased  her  not  a  little ;  for  the 

30 


350  THE  REVENGE. 

anxiety  she  manifested  to  have  it  so,  almost  made  her 
believe  that  she  had  at  last  found  a  beau.  The  glass 
was  consulted  every  hour,  the  curling  tongs  were  sel 
dom  cold,  and  pink  saucers  were  in  great  demand. 
No  stone  was  left  unturned,  no  time  was  thought  to  be 
lost,  when  spent  in  adorning  her  person  and  heightening 
her  charms.  What  is  more  foolish  and  contemptible  than 
for  women  of  a  certain  age  to  pursue  such  a  course  ? 
And  yet  such  cases  are  not  rare.  Age  seems  to  give 
new  vigor  to  their  desire  for  display. 

Mr.  Jameson  appeared  to  have  serious  intentions  in 
visiting  and  receiving  the  visits  of  Clara ;  and  when  he 
saw  the  neighborhood  really  on  tiptoe  about  it,  he  did 
not  deny  that  it  was  actually  so,  and  that  even  the  wed 
ding-day  was  appointed.  Although  Clara  had  no  such 
intimations  from  him  to  that  effect,  she  readily  believed 
what  her  neighbors  said,  and  actually  undertook  to  make 
preparations  for  the  ceremony.  Mr.  Jameson  was  a  little 
astonished  one  day,  when  Miss  Howel  remarked,  "  Had 
we  better  make  any  display  at  the  wedding  ?  "  But  he 
replied,  "  Oh,  no ;  we  may  as  well  have  but  a  small  num 
ber  present." 

"  As  you  think  best,  my  dear,"  said  Clara ;  "  but  I 
should  like  to  disappoint  some  of  our  neighbors,  who 
are  so  inquisitive,  and  not  let  them  know  a  lisp  about 
the  time.  It  will  be  in  season  for  them  to  know  after 
the  ceremony  is  performed." 

The  day  for  the  marriage  of  Miss  Howel  was  ap 
pointed.  A  number  of  guests  had  been  invited,  and  the 
minister  had  arrived,  and  every  thing  was  in  readiness 
for  the  performance  of  the  ceremony  but  the  presence 
of  the  bridegroom.  Mr.  Jameson  had  left  town  that 
afternoon  on  very  urgent  business,  and  was  expected  to 


THE  EEVENGE.  351 

arrive  at  dusk ;  but  he  still  lingered.  An  hour  passed 
and  they  were  fearful  lest  some  accident  had  befallen 
him,  when  presently  a  young  man  in  great  haste  ap 
peared  at  the  door,  inquiring  for  Miss  Howell.  He  pre 
sented  her  a  letter,  and  hurried  away.  She  opened  it 
trembling,  and  began  to  read  its  contents,  when  she 
gave  a  shriek,  fell,  and  was  hurried  to  her  chamber. 
In  the  midst  of  the  confusion,  the  clergyman  took  the 
letter,  and,  after  the  excitement  had  in  some  measure 
subsided,  read  its  contents  to  the  company,  as  follows : 

"  Miss  HOWELL,  —  Do  you  recollect  some  twenty-five  or 
thirty  years  ago,  your  hand  was  solicited  in  marriage  by 
a  young  mechanic,  and  that  you  ordered  him  from  the 
house  ?  Do  you  remember  his  language  to  you,  that  at 
some  future  day  you  would  bitterly  regret  that  step  ? 
You  do  remember  it,  and  now  I  have  my  revenge.  I 
ask  no  more.  HENRY  WATSON." 

The  assembly  were  dumb  with  astonishment.  They 
dispersed,  each  to  his  abode,  conversing  on  the  strange 
affair.  Some  pitied  Clara,  others  condemned,  while 
they  all  pronounced  the  revenge  a  just  but  a  cruel  one. 

Miss  Howell  kept  her  room  for  a  few  days ;  but  after 
that  she  was  seldom  seen  in  company.  She  lived  to  the 
age  of  about  sixty,  and  died  an  old  maid. 

Those  who  despise  work,  and  turn  with  disgust  from 
industry,  must  not  expect  to  prosper.  Though  they 
may  flourish  for  a  season,  the  time  must  come  when 
they  will  regret  their  course,  and  mourn  bitterly  over 
their  follies.  Many  a  girl  has  lived  in  misery  and  died 
in  poverty,  destitute  of  sympathizing  friends,  who  might 
have  been  happy,  had  numerous  friends,  and  died  on. 


352  THE  REVENGE. 

the  bosom  of  love  and  friendship,  had  she  not  turned 
from  her  young  men  of  worth  and  industry,  because 
they  were  poor,  and  clothed  in  a  coarse  exterior.  To  be 
sure  of  success  in  life,  be  industrious,  let  your  smiles 
and  your  approbation  fall  as  often  on 'the  poor  as  the 
rich,  the  humble  as  the  distinguished,  and  you  will  gain 
friends,  43e  respected,  and  pass  your  days  in  peace  and 
happiness. 


AN  ADVENTURE. 


CHAPTER    I. 

Ye  who  are  tempted  to  depart 

From  Virtue's  heavenly  way, 
To  whom  is  held  the  maddening  cup 

To  lead  your  hearts  astray, 
Resolve,  as  long  as  reason  holds 

Her  empire  in  your  soul, 
You  will  not  touch  or  look  upon 

The  false  and  damning  bowl. 

I  WAS  riding  through  the  pleasant  town  of  Gorham, 
in  company  with  a  friend,  several  years  since,  on  a  de 
lightful  day  in  autumn.  When  we  had  passed  the  vil 
lage,  and  were  perhaps  a  mile  beyond,  a  young  woman 
came  rushing  into  the  road  from  a  small  dwelling,  ex 
claiming  to  us  —  "  Stop,  sirs,  stop."  Without  uttering 
another  word,  she  ran  back.  We  instantly  stopped  our 
horse,  jumped  from  the  chaise,  and  entered  the  house. 
The  first  scene  presented  to  us  was  a  man  with  a  knife 
in  his  hand,  swearing  vengeance  upon  a  half-frantic  wo 
man,  who  was  endeavoring  to  prevent  him  from  stab 
bing  her,  as  he  was  attempting  to  do.  Two  or  three 
young  children  were  screaming,  while  the  little  furni 
ture  was  scattered  all  about  the  room.  Soon  as  the 
man  saw  us,  he  exclaimed  with  an  oath,  "  Enter  this 
door,  and  you  are  dead  men !  Be  off,  or  I  will  run  you 
80* 


354  AN 'AD VENTURE.  * 

• 

through !  "  Fearing  every  moment  the  madman,  as  he 
appeared  to  be,  would  stab  the  poor  woman  to  the  heart, 
wo  made  a  rush  towards  him,  and  before  he  had  an  op 
portunity  to  carry  his  threat  into  execution,  we  had  him 
secure.  The  instrument  we  snatched  from  his  hand, 
and  with  the  assistance  of  the  young  lady,  secured  him 
with  a  rope.  Never  did  a  man  use  more  threatening 
language  than  he,  while  we  were  laboring  to  prevent 
him  from  doing  an  injury  to  the  woman  and  ourselves. 
It  was  some  time  after  we  had  secured  the  wretch,  be 
fore  the  lady  recovered  herself  sufficiently  to  relate  the 
cause  of  the  affair. 

Mr.  Sentese  was  hqr  husband,  to  whom  she  had  been 
married  eighteen  or  twenty  years.  For  the  first  few 
years  of  her  wedded  life  he  had  trea'ted  her  with  the  u'> 
most  kindness,  and  they  had  prospered  on  their  little 
farm.  About  a  dozen  years  before  he  commenced  the 
use  of  ardent  spirit,  and  from  that  time  he  was  an  al 
tered  man.  The  habit  of  intemperance  had  been  grow 
ing  upon  him,  so  that  it  was  no  uncommon  thing  to  re 
ceive  abuse  from  him.  He  had  now  been  constantly 
drunk  for  about  a  week,  and  without  any  provocation,  at 
tempted  to  take  the  life  of  his  wife.  Had  not  Ellen,  her 
daughter,  seen  and  hailed  us  as  we  were  passing,  she 
continued,  "  I  have  no  doubt  my  life  would  have  been 
sacrificed." 

After  hearing  the  tale  of  wrong  from  the  lips  of  the 
wife  and  mother,  we  could  not  but  feel  a  deep  interest 
in  her  welfare,  and  sympathize  with  the  more  than  fa 
therless  children.  What  course  to  pursue,  we  were  not 
long  in  deciding.  My  friend,  whom  I  shall  call  Mr. 

T ,  went  to  the  village  for  an  officer  to  arrest  the 

monster,  while  I  remained  in  the  farmhouse. 


AN  ADVENTUEE.  355 

But  very  little  furniture  was  found  in  the  rooms, 
yet  every  thing  looked  neat  and  ^tidy  about  the  house, 
which  spoke  well  for  Mrs.  Sentese.  She  had  managed 
to  keep  her  children  from  rags,  and  also  to  give  them 
better  instruction  than  could  have  been  expected.  Her 
eldest  daughter,  Ellen,  was  quite  a  pretty  miss  of  some 
sixteen  years,  and  her  behavior  on  this  occasion  bespoke 
an  excellent  mind.  In  our  communication  with  her,  we 
found  her  quite  intelligent,  but  she  felt  deeply  the  wound 
that  had  been  inflicted  on  the  family  by  the  intemperance 
of  her  father,  as  the  occasional  tears  testified. 

In  the  course  of  an  hour  Mr.  T returned  with  an 

officer,  and  the  depraved  and  wretched  husband  and  par 
ent  was  carried  away.  We  stopped  for  a  short  time 
only,  and  as  we  departed  from  the  house,  we  received 
the  thanks  of  the  mother  and  all  the  children.  "  We 
will  never  forget  your  kindness,"  said  Ellen ;  "  and  if 
you  ever  come  this  way,  we  shall  be  happy  to  have  you 
call  and  see  us." 

"  Depend  upon  it,  we  shall,"  we  replied,  and  started 
on  our  journey,  while  the  mother  and  children  watched 
us  from  the  door  till  we  had  driven  out  of  sight. 

It  was  about  two  years  after  the  circumstance  just  re 
lated,  that  Mr.  T and  myself  were  returning  from 

Standish,  when  he  remarked,  "  Let  us  call  at  the  house 
we  stopped  at  some  time  since,  where  they  had  the 
trouble  with  the  intemperate  husband.  As  I  have  never 
seen  or  heard  from  them  since,  I  feel  a  curiosity  to  know 
what  has  become  of  them." 

"  Agreed,"  said  I ;  and  in  a  short  tune  our  horse  was 
hitched  at  the  door. 

We  knocked,  and  presently  Ellen  appeared.     She  rec- 


356  AN  ADVENTURE. 

ognized  us  at  once,  and,  after  a  hearty  shake  of  the  hand, 
we  were  politely  invited  to  walk  in.  The  old  lady  was 
as  glad  as  her  daughter  to  see  us.  They  had  often  won 
dered  why  we  did  not  call  upon  them ;  "  and  we  have 
glorious  news  to  tell  you,"  remarked  the  mother. 
''  Since  that  dreadful  affair,  Mr.  Sentese  has  become  a-re- 
.formed  man.  For  two  years  past,  I  believe,  not  a  drop 
of  spirit  has  entered  his  lips.  When  he  came  to  him 
self,  and  knew  what  he  had  done,  he  could  hardly  be 
lieve  it,  and  from  that  time  he  resolved  never  to  touch 
another  glass  of  rum,  and  he  has  sacredly  kept  his  res 
olution.  He  has  been  one  of  the  best  of  husbands  and 
fathers  ever  since.  He  works  hard  every  day,  and  now 
we  have  all  the  necessaries  of  life.  Perhaps  you  have 
noticed  the  difference  in  the  appearance  of  our  rooms. 
"We  do  not  look  so  poverty-stricken  as  we  did  two  years 
ago.  0  gentlemen,  we  cannot  feel  too  thankful  for 
your  timely  assistance  !  Had  you  not  come  in  as  you 
did,  how  differently  might  the  affair  have  terminated ! " 

Just  at  this  time,  Mr.  Sentese  entered  the  room.  "When 
we  were  introduced  to  him,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  he  re 
gretted  the  course  he  formerly  pursued,  and  thanked 
God  that  he  had  become  another  man.  Together  we 
remained  more  than  an  hour,  and  were  about  taking 
our  departure,  fearing  we  should  not  return  home  till 
late,  when  he  strongly  urged  us  to  remain  for  the  night. 
We  refused  at  first,  but  when  Ellen  and  her  mother 
seemed  so  anxious  for  us  to  stop  with  them,  we  finally 
concluded  to  let  Mr.  Sentese  put  up  our  horse.  We 
never  passed  a  more  agreeable  time,  and  in  no  strange 
house  were  we  ever  so  much  at  home. 

As  we  retired  for  the  night,  Mr.  T said  to  me, 


AN  ADVENTUEE.  357 

"  What  a  beautiful  girl  Ellen  has  become !  So  free  and 
easy  in  her  manners ;  so  artless,  and  yet  so  dignified !  " 
To  which  I  could  not  but  assent. 

In  the  morning,  Ellen  arose  early  and  prepared  break 
fast,  of  which  we  heartily  partook,  at  the  same  time  en 
gaging  in  pleasant  conversation.  It  was  two  or  three 
hours  after  breakfast  before  we  were  ready  to  start,  and 
then  my  friend  and  Ellen  did  not  seem  to  get  half  through 
with  what  they  had  to  say. 

Riding  slowly  along,  I  found  Mr.  T often  in  a 

brown  study.  He  confessed  that  he  had  been  peculiarly 
struck  with  the  appearance  of  the  young  lady. 

"  But  this  wont  do,"  said  I,  "  for  you  are  engaged  to 
Miss ." 

"  I  know  it,  but  how  can  I  help  it  ?  She  appears  so" 
amiable,  besides  being  so  beautiful.  I  must  confess  I 
love  her." 

"  You  will  soon  forget  her." 

"  Perhaps  not.  She  has  made  a  deep  impression  on 
iny  mind,  there  is  no  dispute  about  it." 

Thus  conversing,  we  jogged  along,  enjoying  the  varied 
scenery  in  the  wood,  till  we  arrived  at  Portland. 

Not  many  months  passed  before  my  friend  T was 

married  to  Miss ,  and  in  a  short  time  after,  he  left 

his  native  city  to  do  business  in  another  place. 


358  AN  ADVENTUBE. 


CHAPTER    II. 

At  home  —  abroad  —  thy  constant  love, 

With  influence  divine, 
Like  to  a  flame  from  heaven  above 

Will  all  around  me  shine  : 
And  should  a  cloud  of  sorrow  rise, 

To  shade  life's  blissful  day, 
Thy  love  will  brighten  all  the  skies, 
,        And  drive  the  storm  away. 

PROUT'S  NECK!  who  has  not  visited  this  delightful 
place  ?  A  dozen  miles  from  Portland,  through  one  of 
the  pleasantest  woods  in  the  world,  this  neck  is  a  re 
treat  for  all  the  lovers  of  the  grand  and  the  beautiful  in 
nature.  The  huge  rocks  and  sandy  beaches,  with  the 
sea  stretching  far  away  in  the  distance,  present  a  scene 
that  no  admirer  of  God's  works  can  gaze  upon  and  not 
feel  emotions  of  pleasure.  We  love  to  visit  Prout's 
Neck  —  ask  the  Libbys  and  old  Prout  himself  if  we 
don't  —  for  there  we  spend  many  a  pleasant  and  profita 
ble  hour.  Beckett  and  myself,  when  wearied  with  edi 
torial  and  city  life,  often  take  our  guns  or  our  lines, 
and  direct  our  course  to  the  Neck,  feeling  all  the  better 
for  the  jaunt. 

One  beautiful  day  last  summer,  as  we  were  riding 
leisurely  along,  towards  the  residence  of  old  Prout,  our 
guns  in  the  chaise,  loaded  and  capped,  ready  for  execu 
tion  should  we  see  any  thing  worth  firing  at,  we  discov 
ered  a  large  bird  on  an  out-building.  Seizing  my  gun, 
I  jumped  from  the  chaise  and  hastened  towards  the  crea 
ture.  When  within  gunshot,  I  discharged  my  piece,  and 
down  fell  the  bird.  A  woman  who  lived  in  the  first 
house  came  out  and  inquired  what  I  had  shot.  As  I 


AN  ADVENTUKE.  359 

showed  her  the  bird,  she  looked  up  smiling,  and  said, 
"  Have  I  not  seen  you  before  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  say.  Your  countenance  looks  familiar  to 
me." 

"  Isn't  your  name  Mr. ?  " 

"  That  is  my  name." 

"  Why,  sir,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you.  Don't  you 
know  me  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  do  not." 

"  My  name  was  Ellen  Sentese  before  I  was  married." 

At  once  I  recognized  her.  Five  years  had  altered  her 
a  little,  but  she  had  the  same  sweet  voice  and  pleasant 
look.  Requesting  friend  Beckett  to  wait  a  few  moments, 
I  stepped  into  the  house,  when  Ellen  informed  me  that 
she  had  been  married  about  three  years.  "  I  lived  hi 
Gorham,"  said  she,  "  with  my  parents,  until  I  removed 
with  my  husband  to  Bath,  three  years  ago,  where  he  was 
in  business.  He  thought  that  he  should  prefer  a  farm, 
and  that  it  would  be  better  for  his  health  than  to  remain 
longer  in  trade,  accordingly,  about  four  months  since, 
he  quit  his  place,  and  but  recently  removed  here." 

"  Are  you  pleased  with  your  new  situation  ?  "  I  in 
quired. 

"  Very  much.  I  can  have  a  view  of  the  salt  water  from 
our  back  window,  and  that  is  always  pleasant  to  me ;  and 
you  see  we  are  pretty  well  supplied  with  delightful  trees. 
This  is  a  beautiful  situation." 

"  So  I  think.     But  how  are  yoar  parents  ?  " 

"  Quite  well.  Mother's  health  has  not  been  remarka 
bly  good  for  the  last  year  or  two ;  but  she  keeps  about ; 
and  father  is  as  healthy  as  ever,  and  in  good  spirits,  too. 
Ever  since  he  left  off  drinking,  he  has  been  another  man. 
He  is  as  kind  a  father  as  one  could  wish  to  have.  Yes- 


360  AN   ADYENTURfi. 

terday  father  and  mother  were  here  and  spent  the  day. 
It  was  the  first  time  they  have  been  here  since  we  re 
moved  from  Bath.  They  are  delighted  with  the  place." 

"  But  your  husband  I  don't  know ;  where  is  he  ?  " 

"  He  has  gone  over  to  Mr.  Libby's,  and  will  return 
very  soon.  I  think  you  have  seen  him." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  have  a  good  husband." 

"  There  never  was  a  better  one.  He  was  a  widower 
when  I  married  him.  That  little  girl  sitting  in  the 
rocking-chair  is  a  child  by  his  first  wife,  and  a  beautiful 
thing  she  is.  I  don't  see  but  I  love  her  as  well  as  I  do 
my  own  child.  Mary,  go  and  see  the  gentleman.  Go, 
don't  be  bashful,  dear." 

The  little  thing  came  slowly  along.  I  took  up  the 
child,  which  was  indeed  a  fine  one. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Mary  T ,"  said  she. 

"  Mary  T — * — ,  did  I  understand  her  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Ellen. 

"  Is  your  husband  any  relation  to  my  old  friend,  Mr. 
T ?  '* 

"  It  is  the  same." 

At  that  moment  Mr.  T made  his  appearance, 

anc.  never  was  I  more  pleased  to  see  an  individual.  I 
bad  not  seen  him  before  for  several  years,  and  knew  not 
till  then  that  his  former  wife  was  not  living.  He 
briefly  related  to  me  the  incidents  of  his  life  since  we 
parted  five  years  before.  He  lived  with  his  first  wife 
but  about  two  years,  when  consumption,  that  disease  so 
prevalent  in  this  climate,  carried  her  off.  She  was 

every  thing  a  woman  could  be,  and  Mr.  T loved  her 

tenderly  and  affectionately.  To  repair  his  loss,  he  knew 
not  where  to  look,  excepting  to  Miss  Sentese  —  as  much 


AN  ADVENTURE.  361 

like  his  wife  as  two  beings  could  be.  For  this  purpose, 
he  paid  a  visit  to  Gorham,  was  kindly  received,  his  re 
quest  granted,  and  he  again  became  a  happy  man. 
Tired  of  mercantile  life,  he  purchased  a  farm,  where  he 
hoped  to  enjoy  himself  with  his  family.  After  spend 
ing  half  an  hour  in  pleasant  conversation  with  these 
friends,  I  left  them,  assuring  them  that  I  should  often 
call  at  their  house  —  it  being  directly  on  the  road  to 
Prout's  Neck,  my  favorite  resort. 

No  wonder  Beckett  exclaimed,  as  I  jumped  into  the 
chaise,  "  I  thought  you  had  concluded  to  spend  the  day 
in  the  house  !  Who  in  the  world  did  you  find  there 
that  you  were  acquainted  with  ?  " 

The  whole  story  was  immediately  told  him,  as  we  pro 
ceeded  to  the  Neck.  "We  enjoyed  ourselves  in  gunning 
and  fishing,  and  returned  at  night,  with  better  spirits,  to 
engage  in  the  turmoils  of  business. 

It  is  seldom  I  go  to  Prout's  Neck  when  I  do  not  call 

at  the  house  of  Mr.  T .    I  always  find  Ellen  the 

same  cheerful  and  agreeable  woman. 
31 


Temptations  thicken  as  we  yield, 

And  seem  less  fatal  too ; 
And  every  step  in  uice  we  take, 

'Tis  easier  to  pursue. 
Once  past  the  bounds  of  virtuous  life, 

Our  feet  will  swiftly  glide, 
Till  we  are  borne  with  rapid  force 

Down,  down  destruction's  tide. 

"  I  SHALL  have  as  many  favors  as  you,  Bill,  and  get 
along  as  comfortably,  if  I  do  occasionally  provoke  the 
old  man." 

"  No,  Dick,  I  think  not.  Mr.  Porter  is  a  man  who 
says  but  little,  yet  he  knows  when  we  are  faithful  to  him 
and  perform  our  duty  as  we  ought,  and  will  remember 
it  when  we  ask  him  a  favor." 

"  That's  what  you  always  say ;  but  I  know  better. 
Do  you  suppose  he  knew  that  I  took  a  half-day  when  he 
was  absent  ?  "or  that  he  thinks  more  highly  of  you  for 
sticking  to  your  work  ?  " 

"  Whether  he  knows  or  not,  I  know  I  did  my  duty, 
and  if  he  ever  finds  it  out,  I  shall  not  be  censured.  I 
shall  always  endeavor  to  perform  my  duty." 

"  And  a  big  fool  you  are,  Bill,  for  that.  I  intend  to 
enjoy  myself  as  often  as  I  can ;  but  I'don't  think  there 
is  any  wrong  in  taking  an  hour's  time,  working  as  hard 


THE  TWO   APPEENTICES.  363 

as  we  do ;  and  as  often  as  I  get  an  opportunity,  I  shall 
go  away." 

"  I  shall  not,  but  will  endeavor  to  discharge  my  duty, 
and  then  no  fault  can  be  found." 

"  I  tell  you  what  you  are  after,  Bill ;  it  is  to  curry  fa 
vor  with  the  old  man  in  hopes  to  be  benefited  by  it ;  but 
I  tell  you  you  are  deceiving  yourself,  and  so  you  will 
find  out  in  the  end.  You  will  succeed  no  better  than 
I  shall." 

"  You  wrong  me,  Dick.  I  wish  to  do  only  what  is 
right  —  what  I  promised  to  do  when  Mr.  Porter  took  me 
to  learn  the  cabinet-maker's  trade.  You  know  I  do  no 
more  than  my  duty." 

"  Your  same  old  story,  Bill.  But  I  don't  want  to 
hear  such  stuff.  I  will  have  a  scrape,  now  and  then, 
and  the  old  man  shall  be  no  wiser  for  it." 

Richard  Jackson  and  William  Leighton  were  the  ap 
prentices  of  Mr.  Porter.  They  Were  nearly  of  the  same 
age,  and  had  been  in  the  employ  of  Mr.  Porter  for  about 
two  years,  learning  the  trade  of  a  cabinet-maker. 
Richard  was  a  headstrong,  unprincipled  boy,  who  was 
determined  to  be  under  no  restraint.  Whenever  he 
"was  checked  in  any  wrong,  course,  or  his  errors  were 
pointed  out  to  him  by  his  master,  instead  of  being 
sorry  for  the  past,  and  striving  to  do  better  for  the  fu 
ture,  he  would  make  some  unkind  reply,  or  grumble  a 
long  while  to  himself.  If  he  should  be  reproved  for 
using  a  profane  word,  he  would  say,  just  loud  enough 
for  his  companion  to  hear,  "  I  will  swear  as  much  as  I 
please,"  or,  "It  is  none  of  your  business  what  I  do," 
and  the  like.  Having  lost  his  father  at  an  early  age,  he 
had  been  brought  up  by  a  too  indulgent  mother,  who 
had  but  little  if  any  government  over  her  boy$  and  so 


364  THE  TWO   APPRENTICES. 

he  was  suffered  to  go  on  unrestrained  in  evil  paths, 
contracting  bad  habits,  until  his  mother  had  obtained 
for  him  a  situation  with  Mr.  Porter. 

William  was  a  kind-hearted,  obedient  lad.  It  was 
not  often  that  he  was  reproved  by  his  master ;  but 
sometimes,  when  influenced  by  his  companion,  he 
would  forget  his  duty  and  do  a  wrong  act.  But  when 
he  was  checked  in  his  course,  he  would  manifest  his 
sorrow  by  his  looks,  and  sometimes  the  tear  would  fall 
from  his  eye,  while  he  told  Richard  that  he  would  not 
be  guilty  of  such  a  thing  again.  It  was  his  general 
endeavor  to  give  satisfaction  to  his  master,  and  to  do 
nothing  behind  his  back  which  he  would  not  approve  if 
he  were  presnt.  Although  he  was  frequently  sneered 
at  by  his  fellow-apprentice,  and  called  a  simpleton  anl  a 
fool,  he  heeded  it  not,  but  made  the  interest  of  his  mas 
ter  his  study.  William  had  been  brought  up  in  a  good 
family.  His  parents  spared  no  pains  to  train  him  to 
virtue,  leaving  on  his  mind  the  impression  that  truth  and 
integrity  will  finally  triumph  over  vice  and  error.  And 
this  was  the  doctrine  he  endeavored  to  teach  his  com 
panion,  who  derided  and  laughed  at  him  for  his  folly. 

One  day  when  Mr.  Porter  was  absent  from  town,  a 
gentleman  called  at  the  shop,  stating  that  he  had  a  lit 
tle  job  which  he  wished  to  have  done  immediately,  as 
he  must  leave  the  place  that  night.  •  < 

"  We  can't  do  it  ourselves,"  said  Richard  ;  "  and  Mr. 
Porter  is  away." 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  can,  Mr."  said  William ;  "  I  know  we  can 
doit."  " 

"  We  cannot,  sir,"  said  the  other ;  "  they'll  do  it  for 
you  in  the  shop  below ; "  and  then  he  turned  to  Wil 
liam,  saying  in  a  whisper,  "  What  a  fool  you  are  !  Let 


THE  TWO   APPRENTICES.  365 

the  man  go.  I  aint  going  to  work  myself  to  death  foi 
nothing." 

The  gentleman  had  started  for  the  door,  when  "Wil 
liam  ran  to  him  and  said,  "  If  you  will  leave  your  job, 
it  shall  be  done,  I  assure  you." 

"  I  must  have  it  to-night,"  said  the  man. 

"  Walk  in  and  tell  me  just  what  you  want ;  I  will  as 
sure  you  of  its  being  done,  and  to  your  satisfaction." 

'The  gentleman  gave  the  direction  to  the  apprentice, 
and  left  the  shop.  He  had  no  sooner  gone  than  Richard 
let  loose  his  temper  on  his  companion.  "  I  shall  not 
help  you,"  said  he,  "  for  you  had  no  business  to  engage 
the  job.  I  never  saw  so  big  a  simpleton  in  all  my  life. 
To-day  we  might  have  had  some  fine  sport,  and  no  one 
would  have  been  the  wiser  for  it,  and  now  you  have 
taken  in  a  plaguy  job." 

"  But  Mr.  Porter  would  have  taken  in  the  work  had 
he  been  at  home,"  said  William,  "  and  I  feel  bound  to 
look  out  for  his  interest,  and  I  always  shall.  Whether 
you  help  me  or  not,  as  I  have  promised,  the  work  shall 
be  done  to-night." 

So  William  took  hold  of  the  job ;  he  kept  close  to  his 
bench,  spending  but  a  few  minutes  to  his 'dinner,  and  just 
before  dark  he  had  the  work  completed.  When  the  gen 
tleman  called,  he  appeared  well  pleased  with  the  work 
manship,  praised  the  lad  for  fulfilling  his  promise,  and 
paid  him  two  dollars  for  the  job. 

"  I  like  industry  and  punctuality  in  a  boy,"  said  the 
stranger,  "  and,  as  these  traits  appear  to  be  in  you  I 
know  you  will  succeed." 

As  a  mark  of  his  esteem,  he  handed  him  twenty-five 
cents  for  his  own  use,  and  departed.  He  had  no  sooner 
31 


366  THE  TWO   APPRENTICES. 

gone,  than  Richard  said,  "  Let  us  keep  the  two  dollars 
for  spending  money.  The  old  man  will  never  know  any 
thing  about  it." 

"  By  no  means,"  replied  "William ;  "  I  did  the  job  my 
self  in  the  time  belonging  to  Mr.  Porter,  and  the  money 
is  his  and  he  shall  have  it." 

"  But  he  wont  thank  you  for  it.  If  you  are  not  a  fool 
you  will  keep  it." 

"  It  would  be  the  same  as  stealing  if  I  should  take  it ; 
and  that  sin  I  will  never  be  guilty  of." 

"  No,  it  would  not.  Sometimes  the  old  man  has  sent 
me  to  buy  articles  for  him,  and  I  have  kept  part  of  the 
change,  a  few  cents,  perhaps,  to  buy  apples  or  nuts  with, 
and  I  will  do  the  same  again.  As  long  as  I  buy  things 
to  eat  with  his  money,  it  is  not  wrong." 

"  Most  certainly  it  is,  Richard,  unless  you  can  get  his 
consent.  '  It  is  something  I  would  never  do." 

As  Mr.  Porter  would  not  return  till  the  next  day, 
William  folded  the  two  dollars  in*  a  piece  of  paper  and 
put  it  in  one  corner  of  his  pocket,  so  that  he  might  be 
sure  and  not  lose  it.  He  and  Richard  retired  together 
but  as  William  had  worked  hard,  he  soon  fell  asleep. 
His  companion,  as  soon  as  he  discovered  this,  slid  easily 
from  the  bed  and  took  the  money  from  the  pocket  of 
the  faithful  boy  and  hid  it  in  the  crevice  of  the  chimney, 
and  then  as  softly  went  to  his  bed  again. 

The  next  day,  as  soon  as  they  were  dressed,  William 
felt  in  his  pocket  for  the  two  dollars,  and  discovered 
that  the  money  was  gone.  With  tears  in  his  eyes,  he 
accused  Richard  of  taking  it,.  "  for,"  said  he,  "  the  last 
thing  I  did  before  going  to  bed  was  to  look  at  the  money, 
and  no  one  has  been  here  but  you."' 


THE  TWO   APPRENTICES.  367 

"  You  are  a  liar,"  said  Richard,  with  an  oath ;  "  I 
have  not  seen  your  money ;  you  have  probably  misplaced 
it,  and  now  you  accuse  me- of  stealing !  " 

William  felt  in  each  of  his  pockets,  turned  them  inside 
out,  felt  again,  and  then  turned  over  his'  clothes  in  his 
trunk,  looked  about  the  floor,  and  everywhere  he  could 
think  of,  but  without  success.  "  Now  tell  me,  Dick, 
have  you  not  got  that  money  ?  " 

'^  Have  I  not  told  you  once  or  twice  ?  Yet  you  accuse 
me  of  stealing.  It  is  more  than  likely  you  have  spent 
it  yourself,  and  the  old  man  ought  to  know  it." 

"  I  shall  tell  him  myself,  when  he  comes  home.'" 

"  But  he  wont  believe  you.  He'll  give  you  a  jawing, 
and  more  than  likely  turn  you  away.  I  would  rather 
keep  it  a  secret." 

William  went  to  work  with  a  sad  heart.  He  had 
earned  two  dollars  for  his  master,  by  working  hard,  and 
it  was  lost.  The  thought  would  sometimes  enter  his 
mind  that  he  had  better  conceal  it  from  his  master ; 
but  then  he  would  say  to  himself  that  it  was  his  duty  to 
let  him  know  about  it. 

When  Mr.  Porter  came  home,  the  faithful  lad  related 
the  whole  affair,  but  he  was  not  censured. .  "  Perhaps 
you  may  yet  find  the  money,"  said  his  master ;  "  but  if 
you  should  not,  don't  let  it  trouble  you." 

William  did  not  tell  Mr.  Porter  that  he  suspected  that 
his  companion  had  stolen  it,  although  he  had  no  doubt 
in  his  own  mind  that  such  was  the  case. 

A  year  or  more  had  passed  away  since  the  two  dollars 
were  taken,  when  one  night  Richard  said  to  his  compan 
ion,  "  Bill,  what  do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to  do  to-mor 
row?" 

"  I'm  sure  I  cannot  tell ;  but  I  hope  nothing  wrong." 


368  THE  TWO   APP3ENHCES. 

"  I'm  going  to  leave  the  old  man.  I  am  tired  of  work 
ing  in  the  shop.  I  can  get  better  wages  in  Boston  or 
Now  York,  and  I  am  determined  to  go  to  one  place  or 
the  other." 

"  A  foolish  idea,  Dick  ;  you  had  better  remain  where 
you  are.  Here  you  have  friends,  and  if  you  are  sick  or 
destitute  you  know  where  to  go  ;  but  if  you  leave,  you 
will  be  among  strangers  ;  and  if  you  are  successful  and 
get  business,  you  may  not  turn  out  well.  You  certainly 
cannot  get  a  better  place,  or  find  a  better  master." 

"  I  shall  go  to-morrow,  Bill,  and  you  are  a  fool  for 
staying  here.  I  can  get  double  the  wages  in  Boston, 
and  can  be  my  own  man." 

"  But  you  will  be  a  runaway  boy,  and  will  always 
be  ashamed  to  come  home  and  see  your  friends,  even 
if  you  should  succeed  and  prosper." 

"  I'm  tired  of  this  place,  and  shall  never  care  about 
returning.  But  don't  tell  the  old  man  where  I  am  gone, 
for  he  might  take  a  notion  to  send  after  me." 

William  advised  him,  with  all  the  arguments  in  his 
power,  not  to  think  of  leaving  his  place,  but  it. was  of 
no  avail.  The  next  day  came,  and  Richard  had  left  his 
place.  Mr.  Porter  simply  remarked,  "  I  am  sorry  for 
the  boy ;  he  will  not  find  such  good  friends  away ;  and 
he  may  get  into  bad  company,  and  be  ruined." 

That  week,  on  reckoning  up  what  he  had  received  and 
paid  away,  Mr.  Porter  missed  six  or  eight  dollars,  and 
how  to  account  for  it  he  did  not  know,  unless  Richard 
had  been  dishonest  and  taken  it  away.  But,  as  he  had 
no  proof,  and  did  not  know  but  he  might  have  lost  it 
himself,  he  said  nothing  about  it.  The  place  of  Rich 
ard  was  immediately  supplied  by  another  youth,  and 


THE  TWO   APPRENTICES.  369 

the  change  was  not  regretted  by  William  or  any  member 
of  the  family. 

As  the  years  passed  away,  "William  continued  faithful 
to  his  employer,  passing  his  leisure  hours  in  reading  or 
writing,  and  thus  improving  his  mind.  Young  Leighton 
became  one-and-twenty,  the  age  when  all  apprentices 
are  free  from  their  masters,  and  are  at  liberty  to  go 
where  they  please,  and  to  work  for  whom  they  feel  dis 
posed.  As  Mr.  Porter  had  become  attached  to  William 
he  made  a  proposition  to  enter  into  full  copartnership, 
and  carry  on  business  together.  This  he  was  pleased 
to  do ;  but  his  passion  for  study  had  so  increased,  that 
after  a  few  month's  work,  he  relinquished  his  business, 
and  gave  his  whole  attention  to  study.  A  friend  of 
Leighton,  an  able  lawyer,  persuaded  him  to  study  in  his 
office,  which  he  consented  to  do.  He  possessed  a  fine, 
discriminating  mind,  and  improved  rapidly  in  his  studies. 
In  a  year  or  two,  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  was 
pronounced  by  good  judges  a  man  of  talents,  well  versed 
in  his  profession.  As  a  pleader  or  a  counsellor,  few 
were  his  superiors,  and  his  business  rapidly  increased. 

Leighton  had  practised  at  the  bar  some  five  or  six 
years,  when  he  was  put  up  as  a  candidate  for  represent 
ative  to  Congress.  He  met  with  a  little  opposition,  but  was 
elected  by  a  large  majority.  In  the  House  of  Represent 
atives,  he  did  honor  to  himself  and  to  the  district  whose 
united  voice  had  sent  him  there.  Few  spoke  better  or" 
more  to  the  purpose ;  yet  he  was  modest  and  unassum 
ing.  He  knew  when  to  speak,  and  how  to  address  the 
assembly,  and  thus  won  laurels  to  which  hundreds  as 
pired,  yet  died  without  winning. 

During  a  congressional  session,  a  gentleman  stopped 
at  the  boarding-house  of  Mr.  Leighton,  .and  informed 


370  THE  TWO   APPRENTICES. 

him  that  a  man  who  was  in  prison  was  very  anxious  to 
sec  him,  and  urgently  requested  that  he  might  call 
The  first  leisure  hour  ho  had,  the  stranger  accompanied 
him  to  the  cell,  where,  haggard  aud  dirty,  was  chained 
a  human  being. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  prisoner,  "  I  learn  that  you  reside  in 

S .     That  is  my  native  place.      I  am  now  under 

sentence  of  death  for  highway  robbery.  It  is  right  that 
I  should  suffer ;  but  I  am  among  strangers ;  no  one 
knows  me,  no  one  cares  for  me.  Soon  I  shall  receive 
the  just  deserts  of  a  life  of  crime.  But  I  had  a  mother 

once  in  S ,  and  also  a  friend.     My  object  in  sending 

for  you  is  this :  if  my  mother  is  living,  and  has  heard 
of  my  life  of  .crime,  I  wanl;  her  *to  know  that  I  died  a 
penitent;  that  her  counsels  and  admonitions  are  re 
membered  in  my  last  hours.  But  I  pray  she  may  never 
know  the  end  to  which  I  come.  Pray,  sir,  keep  this  a 
secret.  My  mother's  name  is  Jackson.  Do  you  know 
of  such  a  woman  ?  " 

"  What,  widow  Mary  Jackson  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  do  you  know  her  ?  " 

"  And  are  you  her  son  Richard  ?  " 

"  I  am  indeed,  sir." 

"  My  dear  man,"  said  Leighton,  grasping  the  pris 
oner 'by  the  hand  and  weeping ;  "  can  it  be  possible  ? 
Is  this  Richard  Jackson  ?  "  and  the  tears  fell  fast. 

"  Sir,  you  astonish  me,"  said  the  prisoner.  "  Have 
you  seen  me  before  ?  Have  I  robbed  you  ?  0  sir,  tell 
me ! " 

"  I  was  your  early  friend,  your  fellow-apprentice, 
William  Leighton."  • 

"  0  God !  am  I  dreaming  ?  Can  it  be  ?  "  and  the 
poor  man  clasped  him,  weeping  like  a  child. 


THE  TWO   APPRENTICES.  871 

After  a  few  moments,  Jackson  exclaimed,  "Have  I 
come  to  this  ?  have  I  come  to  this  ?  "  and  he  wept  still 
more.  "  Oh,  that  I  had  taken  your  excellent  advice, 
when  you  besought  me  to  look  out  for  my  master's  in 
terest  when  I  was  a  boy.  Would  to  Heaven  I  had  never 
left  my  excellent  place !  "*  continued  he,  still  weeping ; 
and  it  was  a  long  time  before  he  could  restrain  his  tears. 
At  last,  Jackson  briefly  stated  his  career  of  vice.  When 
he  left  his  master,  he  went  to  Boston,  where  he  worked 
for  a  few  weeks,  spending  his  money  with  idle  and  vi 
cious  companions  as  fast  as  he  earned  it.  Thence  he 
started  for  New  York.  Here  ho  commenced  work  again, 
with  the  determination  to  keep  aloof  from  bad  company, 
but  he  had  a  vicious  propensity  ;  he  contracted  bad  hab 
its  ;  became  intemperate,  and  was  dishonest.  He  had 
been  in  jail  two  or  three  times  for  petty  theft,  and  after 
wards  served  two  or  three  years  in  the  state  prison.  He 
had  now  become  hardened  in  sin  and  lived  by  fraud  and 
plunder.  From  one  degree  of  crime  to  another  he 
passed,  stealing  whenever  he  found  an  opportunity,  till 
at  last,  he  took  to  the  highways,  and  was  finally  appre 
hended,  had  his  trial,  and  was  condemned  to  suffer  for 
his  crime  on  the  gallows.  He  confessed  that  he  stole 
the  two  dollars  from  Leighton's  pocket  when  he  was 
asleep,  and  also  took  from  eight  to  ten  dollars  from  Mr. 
Porter  before  he  ran  away.  "  Such  has  been  my 
course,"  said  he  ;  "  but  I  can  censure  none  but  myself. 
You  gave  me  good  advice  ;  you  set  an  excellent  example 
before  me ;  but  I  heeded  it  not,  and  now  I  receive  the 
just  deserts  of  my  folly.  My  poor  mother !  how  she  will 
grieve  when  she  hears  of  the  death  of  her  erring  son ! 
but  may  God  sustain  her." 

Mr.  Leighton  did  little  else  but  weep  as  his  early  friend 


372  THE  TWO   APPRENTICES. 

related  his  coi\rse  of  vice,  his  deeds  of  darkness  ;  he  could 
now  only  point  him  to  his  God,  and  bid  him  seek  that 
forgiveness  from  above  of  which  he  now  stood  in  so 
much  need. 

Till  the  day  of  his  execution,  Mr.  Leighton  was  a  con 
stant  visitor  to  the  cell  of  the  prisoner.  He  never  con 
versed  with  him,  when  he  did  not  regret  his  vicious 
practices,  his  spurning  good  advice,  and  leaving  his  kind 
employer.  During  the  last  hour  of  his  life,  by  Jack 
son's  particular  request,  Mr.  Leighton  was  with  him. 
He  addressed  a  few  words  to  the  spectators,  besought 
them  to  live  a  virtuous  life,  and  while  young  not  to 
take  a  farthing  that  belonged  to  another,  and  never,  on 
any  consideration,  to  leave  a  good  place  and  a  good  mas 
ter.  "  This,"  said  he,  "  and  I  wish  all  the  young  men 
in  the  land  could  hear  me,  —  this  has  been  my  ruin. 
Had  I  listened  to  good  advice,  had  I  obeyed  my  master, 
I  should  never  have  come  to  this  ignominious  end." 

He  bid  adieu  to  his  friend,  thanked  him  for  his  kind 
nesses,  invoked  the  blessing  of  Heaven  upon  him  and 
his  aged  mother,  spent  a  few  moments  in  prayer,  rose, 
and  was  launched  into  eternity. 

Young  men,  for  no  trifling  cause,  should  leave  their 
employers.  The  hope  of  doing  better  and  becoming 
their  own  masters  is  a  trifling  excuse.  Where  one 
succeeds  better  in  the  end,  hundreds  are  lost.  Bad  hab 
its  are  indulged,  injurious  connections  are  formed,  and 
a  thousand  evils  contracted  which  eventually  prove  their 
ruin.  Seek  your  master's  interest,  obey  his  just  com 
mands,  and  you  will  never  regret  this  course  to  the  latest 
period  of  life. 


DON'T  BE  DISCOURAGED. 


In  sorrow  yield  not  to  despair, 

Or  be  in  grief  depressed, 
Nor  let  the  plants  of  anguish  bear 

Their  fruit  within  your  breast. 
Look  up  in  doubt,  look  up  in  fear  — 

Joy  gathers  in  the  sky  ; 
And  when  Misfortune's  storms  are  near, 

You'll  see  a  blessing  nigh. 

EDWARD  HARRIS  had  been  in  business  for  himself  sev 
eral  years.  For  the  first  twelvemonth  and  more,  he 
succeeded  better  than  he  had  anticipated,  and  was  able 
to  pay  his  creditors,  and  obtain  a  larger  amount  of  goods. 
When  Edward  started  in  business  for  himself,  he  had 
no  other  capital  than  an  honest  heart  and  a  virtuous  life, 
yet  he  found  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  what  stock  he 
needed.  What  young  Harris  made  the  first  year,  he 
lost  by  bad  debts  the  second,  and  when  his  notes  became 
due,  it  was  with  difficulty  that  he  met  them  promptly. 
He  was  often  obliged  to  hire  money  of  the  brokers, 
paying  a  large  premium,  so  as  to  preserve  his  credit  and 
meet  his  demands.  In  this  way  Edward  went  behind 
hand,  and  every  month  his  affairs  were  in  a  worse  con 
dition,  till  at  last  he  was  obliged  to  have  his  notes  pro 
tested.  It  was  a  severe  stroke  to  the  young  man,  and  it 
lay  heavy  upon  his  mind.  Sometimes  it  was  with  dif- 
32 


o74  DON'T  BE  DISCOURAGED. 

ftculty  that  lie  closed  his  eyes  at  night.  Having  a  young 
family  dependent  upon  him,  he  felt  his  situation  more 
keenly ;  but  he  had  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  he 
had  done  the  best  in  his  power  to  succeed  in  business. 
When  his  creditors  found  their  notes  against  him  had 
been  protested,  some  of  them  wrote  him  unfeeling  let 
ters,  saying  he  might  have  known  his  situation  before 
purchasing  goods,  and  that  he  should  have  managed  his 
affairs  so  as  to  secure  them.  He  wrote  in  reply,  that  he 
should  still  exert  himself  in  their  behalf,  and  if  they 
would  wait  patiently  and  not  put  him  to  unnecessary 
trouble  and  expense,  he  would  endeavor  to  pay  them 
every  cent.  A  few  of  his  creditors  believed  him  to  be  an 
honest  but  an  unfortunate  young  man,  and  they  agreed 
not  to  trouble  him,  but  wait  until  he  was  able  to  deal 
justly  by  them.  Other  creditors  were  not  so  kind  ;  they 
censured  him  severely,  and  demanded  immediate  pay 
ment,  and  to  secure  themselves  they  sent  their  demands 
to  lawyers,  instructing  them  to  attach  whatever  property 
they  could  get  at.  Edward  was  exceedingly  annoyed 
by  the  sheriffs,  constables,  and  lawyers,  who  picked  up 
every  dollar's  worth  of  property  they  could  lay  their 
hands  upon,  charging  him  with  costs,  after  selling  it  for 
half  its  value. 

When  Edward  failed,  he  was  owing  a  broker  several 
hundred  dollars,  for  which  he  was  paying  at  the  rate 
of  from  thirty  to  forty  per  cent.  None  of  his  creditors 
were  more  alarmed  than  this  man.  Every  few  days  he 
called  upon  young  Harris,  to  inquire  if  he  could  do 
any  thing  for  him ;  he  would  take  twenty  dollars,  five 
dollars,  or  any  thing  that  he  could  spare,  and  endorse 
it  on  his  duebill.  "  You  know  I  have  always  accommo 
dated  you,"  said  he,  "  and  let  you  have  money  when  you 


DON'T  BE  DISCOUHAGED.  375 

wanted  it ;  and  money,  you  know,  is  not  like  goods  on 
which  you  make  a  profit ;  and  you  must  not' let  mo  lose. 
Haven't  you  some  security  that  you  can  give  me  ?  " 

Edward  ascured  the  broker  that  he  should  not  lose  by 
him  in  the  end,  if  he  would  be  patient ;  but  as  for  secu 
rity,  he  had  none  to  give.  But  the  moneyed  man  was  not 
satisfied ;  week  after  week  he  called  upon  him,  till  at  last 
the  young  merchant  was  obliged  to  tell  him,  that  unless 
he  would  be  patient  he  could  never  pay  him  a  cent. 
As  soon  as  he  was  able  to  do  any  thing  for  him,  ho 
would  not  be  backward,  he  assured  him,  but  pay  him  a 
little  at  a  time.  The  broker  murmured,  spoke  of  it  as 
being  a  hard  case,  when  he  had  been  so  very  accommo 
dating,  but  still  was  not  disposed  to  let  the  poor  fellow 
alone,  but  must  needs  torment  him  by  reminding  him  of 
his  debt  every  time  he  had  an  opportunity.  H3  seemed 
fearful  lest  Edward  should  forget  the  obligation  he 
was  under  to  him,  for  his  unparalleled  kindness  and  gen 
erosity  in  loaning  him  money  from  time  to  time,  at  the 
rate  of  thirty  or  forty  per  cent. 

What  course  now  to  pursue,  it  was  difficult  for  Ed 
ward  to  determine.  If  he  had  a  friend  to  assist  him,  he 
might  do  well ;  but  his  credit  was  gone,  and  he  could 
not  purchase  goods.  While  settling  up  his  affairs,  as  a 
relief  to  his  mind,  he  would  take  a  walk  out  of  the  city 
into  the  woods,  and  listen  to  the  singing  of  the  bird?, 
or  watch  the  little  stream  that  murmured  along.  For 
a  while  he  would  forget  his  situation  in  viewing  the 
beauties  of  nature. 

Although  Edward  was  in  such  low  circumstances,  he 
did  not  suffer  himself  wholly  to  despair.  At  times  he 
would  look  to  the  future,  and  fancy  he  saw  it  pregnant 
with  blessings.  To  yield  to  discouraging  circumstances 


376  DON'T  BE  DISCOURAGED. 

he  had  ever  been  taught  was  not  the  policy  of  true  wis 
dom.  If  he  were  alone  in  the  world,  he  often  said,  he 
could  bear  his  misfortunes  with  more  fortitude ;  but  a 
wife  and  one  or  two  children  were  dependent  upon  him 
and  must  necessarily  suffer  with  him. 

One  day,  as  Edward  was  taking  his  accustomed  walk 
in  the  woods,  he  strayed  further  than  usual.  B«.-mg 
weary,  he  sat  upon  an  old  stump  beside  a  beautiful 
stream.  It  was  a  delightful  spot ;  birds  were  twittering 
around  him ;  winds  were  sighing  through  the  trees,  and 
the  pleasant  stream  was  running  at  his  feet.  For  a  long 
time  he  sat  listening  to  the  birds,  or  watching  the  little 
squirrels  that  ran  about  the  trees,  when  his  attention 
was  called  to  an  aged  oak.  Its  size  and  venerable  ap 
pearance  attracted  his  attention.  He  walked  towards 
it,  and  at  that  moment  saw  a  squirrel  run  into  its  nest 
at  the  foot  of  the  tree.  Taking  his  cane,  he  ran  it  into 
the  hole  and  pried  up  some  of  the  dirt.  The  stick  struck 
against  what  he  thought  to  be  a  small  flat  stone,  which 
he  endeavored  to  pry  up.  He  thus  amused  himself  in 
digging,  when,  to  his  astonishment,  what  he  concluded 
to  be  a  rock,  proved  to  be  a  small  iron  box,  very  much 
corroded  by  age.  In  a  short  time,  he  dug  it  up.  By 
its  weight  he  thought  it  must  contain  something  valua 
ble.  With  a  large  rock,  he  easily  broke  it  open,  and  lo  ! 
out  rolled  a  multitude  of  gold  and  silver  coins  of  various 
sizes  ;  besides,  there  was  a  piece  of  silver  plate  on  which 

was  rudely  carved   these  words ;  "  2d  house  in  

Street,  east  side  —  west  corner  of  cellar:  1743."  Ee- 
covering  from  his  surprise,  Edward  collected  the  contents 
of  the  box  in  his  handkerchief,  and  walked  towards  home. 
He  said  nothing  about  the  treasure  he  had  found,  which 
on 'being  counted  amounted  to  about  three  hundred  dol- 


DON'T  BE  DISCOURAGED.  377 

lars.  It  was  very  acceptable  to  him  at  this  time.  Hav 
ing  but  recently  failed,  he  had  not  money  sufficient  to 
carry  him  through  the  winter ;  now  he  concluded  he 
had  enough  to  supply  him  with  the  necessaries  of  life 
until  he  should  find  some  employment  whereby  he  could 
gain  a  livelihood.  Besides,  what  was  he  to  understand 
by  the  inscription  on  the  silver  plato  ?  The  street  he 
well  knew,  though  it  had  taken  another  name  within  a 
half-century ;  but  how  could  he  distinguish  the  "  second 
house"  from  the  numerous  dwellings  in  the  street? 
From  the  oldest  citizens  he  inquired  as  to  the  age  of  the 
several  houses  in  the  street,  and  was  pointed  to  one  on 
the  east  side  that  was  as  old  as  any  house  in  the  place. 
That  must  be  the  one  alluded  to,  thought  Edward,  and 
in  the  cellar  of  that  house  he  did  not  doubt  treasures 
were  hidden.  The  owner  of  the  building  was  a  gentle 
man  in  moderate  circumstances,  who  had  no  desire  to 
sell  it,  he  learned,  unless  he  received  all  it  was  worth 
and  a  little  more.  But  Edward  was  not  in  a  condition  to 
purchase.  He  had  but  little  money,  was  insolvent,  and 
out  of  business.  To  mention  what  he  knew  to  another 
would  be  to  lose  the  treasure,  if  indeed  it  was  there. 
Upon  this  course. he  resolved,  as  soon  as  it  should  be  ex 
pedient,  and  he  could  arrange  his  matters,  to  enter  into 
business  again,  be  prudent  and  industrious,  and  at  some 
future  time  purchase  the  house. 

With  energy,  who  ever  was  a  drone  in  the  world  ? 
With  a  determination  to  do  something,  who  ever  has 
groped  his  way  along  in  dust  and  shadows  ?  Energy  is 
every  thing  to  a  man  in  this  life.  It  is  a  much  better 
capital  than  dollars,  and  in  the  end  is  more  profitable. 
With  all  his  discouragements,  with  a  debt  of  a  thousand 
dollars  and  more  on  his  hands,  with  harsh  treatment 

e-o* 


378  DON'T  BE  DISCOURAGED. 

from  creditors,  lawyers,  sheriffs,  and  constables,  Edward 
did  not  yield  to  discouragement,  did  not  lie  trembling 
on  his  back.  He  went  forth  to  battle  with  Discourage 
ment  and  Prejudice,  and  nobly  did  he  conquer.  With 
a  capital  of  less  than  a  hundred  dollars,  he  commenced 
business  again,  but  not  in  his  old  stand ;  for  his  former 
landlord  had  lost  thirty  or  forty  dollars  by  him  before, 
and  he  swore  ho  should  never  have  another  store  of  him. 
He  commenced  business  —  and  what  was  the  result  ? 
In  a  year  or  two,  he  settled  off  with  his  creditors  —  the 
brokers  and  all  —  sheriffs'  fees  and  constables'  fees  into 
the  bargain.  He  had  again  established  his  credit,  and 
was  rapidly  collecting  property.  In  a  few  years  more, 
he  was  in  hopes  to  be  able  to  purchase  the  house  in 

Street,  on  which  his  eye  had  been  placed  since  his 

good  fortune.  In  the  fall  of  another  year,  he  had  pur 
chased  a  large  stock  of  goods  for  the  winter  trade,  which 
had  the  appearance  of  being  brisk  and  profitable.  Ed 
ward  had  returned  to  town  but  a  few  days,  when  one 
night  he  was  aroused  from  his  slumbers  by  the  cry  of  fire. 
When  he  arrived  at  the  scene  of  destruction,  it  proved 
to  be  his  own  store  in  flames.  Mr.  Harris  was  as  cool 
and  collected  as  one  could  be  under  these  circumstances ; 
for  but  a  portion  of  his  stock  was  insured.  Not  a  hun 
dred  dollars'  worth  was  saved  from  his  store,  and  the 
building  was  wholly  consumed.  It  was  a  severe  blow 
to  Edward,  more  especially  when  he  ascertained  that  his 
policy  of  insurance  had  expired  but  a  day  or  two  pre 
viously,  and  that  he  was  not  worth  a  dollar  in  the  world. 
This  was  the  second  time  he  had  been  reduced  and  lost 
all ;  but  his  noble  spirit  did  not  leave  him.  He  still 
looked  to  the  future,  and  commenced  business  again,  just 
as  soon  as  he  could  obtain  a  store.  To  be  sure  he  had 


DON'T  BE  DISCOURAGED.  379 

but  little  to  trade  upon,  and  was  largely  in  debt.  Unlike 
many  in  such  circumstances,  be  did  not  ask  tbe  sympa 
thy  of  others,  or  whine  about  his  irreparable  loss.  He 
felt  he  had  something  left  yet,  and  when  he  started  again 
he  was  as  cheerful  as  ever.  His  creditors,  to  whom  he 
made  known  his  loss  and  his  inability  to  meet  his  notes 
as  he  expected,  generously  wrote  him  that  he  might  suit 
his  own  convenience,  about  paying  them.  In  doing 
business  again,  Edward  was  prudent  as  could  he  be,  mak 
ing  the  most  of  the  money  he  received.  For  the  first 
few  months  after  his  loss  by  fire,  he  did  as  well  as  one 
could  reasonably  expect,  and  was  regaining  rapidly  the 
amount  of  property  destroyed.  One  afternoon  as  he 
was  trading  with  a  customer,  he  was  waited  upon  by  a 
sheriff,  who  informed  him  that  he  had  instructions  to 
attach  his  stock,  at  the  same  time  showing  him  the  writ. 
Edward  was  thunderstruck,  and  could  hardly  believe 
the  officer,  when  he  was  informed  that  his  property  had 
been  attached  by  the  instruction  of  one  of  his  cred 
itors,  one,  too,  who  had  promised  to  wait  for  his  debt 
in  consideration  of  his  serious  loss  by  fire.  To  see  his 
property  consumed  to  ashes,  was  nothing  in  comparison 
with  this  unfeeling  act.  He  could  not  pay  the  debt  at 
present,  so  he  informed  the  officer ;  but  the  latter  gentle 
man  was  only  performing  his  duty,  he  said,  and  must, 
therefore,  take  charge  of  his  stock.  When  a  man  is 
reduced,  friends  are  scarce ;  and  when  Mr.  Harris  asked 
one  or  two  of  his  neighbors  for  a  little  assistance,  to 
keep  his  goods  from  being  sacrificed,  they  all  had  too 
much  on  their  hands  already  to  grant  him  a  favor.  See 
ing  he  could  not  prevent  the  goods  from  being  sacrificed 
he  let  the  officer  do  his  duty,  who  put  a  keeper  into  the 
store.  In  a  few  days  the  goods  were  advertised  for  sale, 


380  DON'T  BE  DISCOURAGED. 

the  handbjll  stating  they  were  taken  on  execution.  Un 
der  the  hammer  of  the  auctioneer  the  articles  were  sold, 
one  by  one,  to  the  highest  bidder,  bringing  at  most  one- 
third  less  than  they  were  worth.  The  consquence  was, 
the  mean  and  wicked  creditor  received  his  pay  in  full  for 
his  debt,  while  Edward  was  again  thrown  out  of  employ 
ment,  and  his  honorable  creditors  had  not  received  a 
farthing. 

What  could  Mr.  Harris  do  now  ?  Three  times  had 
he  started  in  business,  and  lost  all  he  had  accumulated. 
Should  he  try  again  ?  "  Yes/'  said  his  stout  heart,  as 
he  looked  upon  his  wife  and  children ;  "  I  will  try  again 
and  keep  trying,  till  I  die.  Never  will  I  sit  down  in 
discouragement  so  long  as  I  can  move  a  limb,  and  stir 
about."  Following  up  his  good  resolution,  for  the  fourth 
time,  our  young  merchant  commenced  business,  and  in 
a  smaller  way  than  he  had  ever  begun  before.  He  could 
not  muster  together  ten  dollars  when  he  started,  but 
still  his  capital  did  not  consist  in  silver  and  gold.  He 
commenced  with  this  trifle,  and,  by  prudence,  he  con 
tinued  to  maintain  his  family  and  hold  his  own  for  the 
first  year.  He  had  made  a  living,  and  that  was  all. 
At  this  rate,  Edward  thought  he  should  never  collect 

money  together  sufficient  to  purchase  the  house  in 

Street,  providing  it  could  be  bought ;  but  "  Perseverance 
conquers  all  things,"  being  his  motto,  he  went  forward, 
still  trying  to  do  better,  and  not  at  all  dampened  in  his 
zeal  at  his  trifling  success.  Two  more  years  passed 
away,  and  Edward  had  made  a  little  headway.  He  had 
settled  most  of  his  debts,  and  was  worth  clear  of  the 
world  at  least  fifty  dollars,  and  his  credit  was  tolera 
bly  good.  About  this  time  he  noticed  that  the  house 
on  which  he  had  had  his  eye  for  several  years  past,  was 


DON'T  BE  DISCOURAGED.  381 

advertised  for  sale  or  to  let.  Losing  not  a  moment,  he 
sought  the  advertiser  and  bargained  with  him  for  the  use 
of  the  house  one  year,  with  the  understanding  that  he 
should  have  an  opportunity  of  purchasing  it  after  that 
time  if  he  should  be  able  and  was  pleased  with  the  house. 
"Within  one  week  Edward  had  removed  into  the  old  house 

—  the  house  to  which  his  eye  had  been  turned  for  so  long 
a  period.     No  one  but  himself  had  seen  the  plate  that 
he  found  in  the  woods,  which  he  now  examined  again 
and  read  as  before,  "  2nd  house  in Street,  east  side 

—  west  corner  of  cellar:  1743." 

In  a  few  days  Edward  commenced  his  search,  but  he 
found  nothing  that  appeared  to  indicate  the  treasure 
he  supposed  to  be  buried  there.  He  had  dug  over  all 
the  western  side  of  tlie  cellar,  and  gave  it  up  as  a  use 
less  task,  when  the  thought  struck  him  that  in  the  wall 
something  might  be  hidden,  and  the  more  he  looked  the 
more  he  was  convinced  that  he  was  right  in  his  conjec 
tures.  He  succeeded  in  removing  a  large  stone,  behind 
which  was  a  cavity,  and  there  he  soon  discovered  the 
treasure.  Something  like  two  thousand  dollars  in  gold 
and  silver  were  brought  to  light,  having  been  buried 
three-quarters  of  a  century  at  least.  Edward  made  in 
quiries  for  a  long  time  to  ascertain  to  whom  this  money 
properly  belonged,  for  he  did  not  feel  like  making  use 
of  it  himself  until  he  had  left  no  effort  untried  to  find 
the  owner.  Not  being  successful,  he  appropriated  the 
money  and  purchased  the  old  house.  As  his  business 
had  increased,  and  no  further  drawbacks  had  been  ex 
perienced,  he  was  in  comfortable  circumstances,  and  in 
a  fair  way  to  become  wealthy. 

Who  that  has  failed,  or  been  burnt  out,  and  lost  all, 
will  fold  his  hands  and  cease  his  efforts  ? 


THE  YOUNG  MERCHANT. 


Striving  ever,  you  will  gain 

Wisdom,  virtue,  and  renown, 
And  an  excellence  attain, 

Better  than  a  kingly  crown. 
It  will  keep  you  by  the  side 

Of  the  noble  and  the  wise, 
And  your  life  will  be  a  guide, 

Leading  thousands  to  the  skies. 

"  WHAT  do  you  think  about  accommodating  this  young 
man  ?  "  said  Mr.  Pelby,  a  bank  director,  to  his  associ 
ates,  on  discount  day.  "  He  appears  to  be  sound,  and  the 
amount  is  but  trifling." 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Mr.  Barrow,  a  small,  gray- 
eyed  man,  who  looked  as  if  he  were  born  to  skin  flints 
and  make  money  by  the  operation,  "  I  don't  know  about 
it.  We  have  lost  so  much  in  years  past,  that  I  think  we 
better  not  discount  it.  The  interest  on  a  hundred  dol 
lars  is  but  trifling.  What  do  you  say,  Mr.  Ormard  ?  " 

" 'Tisn't  worth  talking  about  —  so  small  a  sum.  I 
wouldn't  be  bothered  with  it." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Pelby,  "  it  may  be  of  great  assistance 
to  the  young  man  at  this  time,  if  he  could  have  the 
money." 

"  Let  him  go  to  the  broker's,  then,"  said  Mr.  Jameson, 
a  fat  man,  who  had  made  his  money  by  grinding  the  poor 
and  shaving  notes ;  "  let  him  go  to  the  broker's,  if  ho 


THE   YOUNG  MERCHANT.  383 

the  money  so  much.  You  know  we  have  sufficient 
funds  there  and  we  shall  realize  four  times  as  much." 

"  For  my  part,"  said  Barrow,  "  I  don't  think  it  worth 
while  to  bo  troubled  with  small  notes ;  they  are  of  but 
very  little  consequence,  even  if  they  should  be  promptly 
paid." 

"  True,"  replied  Pelby ;  "  but  Mr.  Somers  spoke  to  me 
about  the  note,  and  wished  I  might  say  a  word  in  his 
favor ;  but,  on  the  whole,  I  think  we  may  as  well  not 
accept  it.  Here,  Mr.  Jake,"  addressing  the  cashier, 
and  handing  him  the  note,  "  tell  Mr.  Somers  we  are 
short  of  money  to-day  and  cannot  discount." 

Mr.  Somers  was  a  young  man  of  sterling  integrity. 
He  had  recently  commenced  business  for  himself,  with 
but  little  capital,  and  therefore  felt  the  need  of  some  as 
sistance.  He  had  no  father  or  rich  relatives  to  draw 
upon,  or  exert  themselves  in  his  behalf;  and  when  an 
opportunity  presented  for  the  safe  investment  of  a  little 
money,  he  made  strong  efforts  to  obtain  it  through  the 
banks,  but  was  seldom  accommodated.  It  is  exceedingly 
difficult  for  a  person  with  no  capital  to  succeed  well  in 
business,  especially  with  no  wealthy  friends  to  render 
him  assistance.  So  Somers  knew  by  experience ;  but  he 
was  industrious  and  persevering,  and  determined  to  do 
something.  He  saw  a  chance  to  make  money  by  invest 
ing  about  a  hundred  dollars,  and  it  was  on  this  occasion 
that  he  had  spoken  to  Mr.  Pelby,  and  dropped  his  note 
in  the  bank.  He  was  fearful  of  the  result,  and  when 
the  cashier  informed  him  that  his  note  was  not  accepted 
he  turned  away  with  feelings  rather  indignant  towards 
the  directors,  but  determined  that  he  would  obtain  the 
money.  He  called  at  the  broker's,  paid  three  or  four 
per  cent  a  month,  took  the  amount,  and  made  the  pur- 


384  THE  YOUNG  MERCHANT. 

chase.  In  a  few  weeks  the  broker  was  paid,  but  the  in 
terest  accumulated  so  fast,  that  his  profits  were  not  so 
great  as  he  had  anticipated.  Still  Somers  was  not  dis 
couraged.  He  found  it  exceedingly  difficult  at  times  to 
raise  the  money  that  was  absolutely  necessary  for  the 
payment  of  his  notes,  but,  by  prudence  and  economy, 
and  occasionally  calling  on  the  broker,  he  worried 
through  the  first  year  of  his  mercantile  life.  In  taking 
an  account  of  his  stock,  he  found  that  he  had  actually 
made  a  little  besides  his  living  and  the  few  losses  he  had 
sustained  by  bad  debts.  He  commenced  again  with 
renewed  zeal,  determined  still  to  persevere,  with  the 
hope  that  before  another  twelvemonth  he  should  be  free 
from  all  embarrassment. 

Once  more  Somers  concluded  that  he  would  make  an 
attempt  to  get  a  note  discounted.  He  called  upon  Mr. 
Pelby,  told  him  his  situation,  and  asked  him  to  use  his 
influence  in  his  behalf  at  the  bank  on  the  next  day. 

"  I  will  do  all  I  can,  Mr.  Somers,"  said  the  director. 
"  Will  the  note  be  paid  promptly  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  sir." 

"  Have  you  a  good  name  on  the  note  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  have." 

"  Perhaps  we  can  accommodate  you." 

Somers  also  called  upon  Mr.  Barrow,  who  promised  to 
use  his  influence,  and  thought  there  was  no  doubt  but 
he  could  obtain  the  money. 

The  directors  had  assembled  in  the  bank,  and,  among 
others,  Somers'  note  was  produced. 

"  We  had  better  accept  this  small  note  from  a  worthy 
young  man,"  said  Pelby  to  his  associates. 

"  Plague  on  those  little  notes,"  said  Jameson ;  "  we  are 
eternally  bothered  by  them.  Why  don't  our  young  men 


THE   YOUNG  MERCHANT.  385 

who  want  a  few  dollars  call  upon  the  brokers  ?  It  is 
their  business  to  accommodate  them,  not  ours." 

"  So  I  say,"  replied  Ormand ;  "  we  did  not  open  the 
bank  to  accommodate  every  man  to  a  few  dollars  who 
may  want  the  amount.  We  should  have  nothing  else 
to  do." 

"  Oh,  let  the  young  man  be  accommodated  this  once," 
said  Pelby ;  "he  is  good  for  the  amount,  and  is  working 
hard  to  get  along." 

"  Perhaps  it  may  be  as  well,"  said  Barrow,  "  but  I 
shall  have  nothing  to  say  about  it." 

"  'Tis  of  no  use.  Here,  cashier ;  tell  the  man  that 
it  was  not  possible  for  us  to  do  any  thing  for  him  to 
day,"  said  Jameson,  handing  Mr.  Jake  the  note. 

Mr.  Somcrs  was  disappointed  on  learning  that  he  could 
not  be  accommodated  ;  more  especially  as  he  had  con 
versed  with  two  of  the  directors  of  the  bank,  who  seemed 
to  be  favorably  disposed  towards  him ;  but  he  said  noth 
ing  and  went  his  way,  resolving  to  be  diligent  in  busi 
ness  and  surmount  all  the  difficulties  in  his  path, 
hoping  before  many  months  to  be  relieved  from  the  ne 
cessity  of  asking  accommodation  at  the  banks.  Somors 
prospered  beyond  his  expectations.  Attentive  to  his 
business,  and  economical  in  his  habits,  he  won  the  con 
fidence  of  others,  and  received  a  large  share  of  patron 
age. 

During  his  second  year  of  business,  on  taking  account 
of  his  stock,  he  ascertained  that  his  profits  were  larger 
than  on  the  previous  year,  and  he  had  found  less  difficulty 
in  meeting  his  payments. 

From  this  time,  Somcrs  began  to  prosper ;  his  business 
increased,  and  every  thing  went  on  smoothly  with  him ; 
he  had  no  occasion  to  solicit  favors  at  the  bank,  and  it  was 
33 


386  THE  YOUNG  MERCHANT. 

easy  for  him  to  meet  his  payments.  "With  his  little  cap 
ital  he  made  safe  investments,  took  advantage  of  the 
market,  and  had  quick  returns.  A  great  many  schemes 
were  presented  for  his  countenance,  whore  large  profits 
were  anticipated,  but  he  rejected  them  all,  and  preferred 
to  trade  in  his  own  certain  business  than  to  trust  to  that 
which  was  visionary.  Here  he  was  right.  While  many 
of  his  friends  failed  in  business,  Seniors  prospered,  and 
in  a  few  years  was  considered  a  safe  and  substantial 
merchant. 

A  pleasant  day  in  summer,  as  Somers  was  busy  in  his 
store,  in  stepped  Pelby,  the  old  bank  director.  "  I  am 
glad  to  hear  of  your  prosperity,"  said  he.  "I  always 
knew  you  would  succeed  in  business." 

"  I  have  mado  out  thus  far  better  than  I  had  reason  to 
expect.  When  I  started,  you  know,  it  was  with  diffi 
culty  that  I  made  my  payments ;  but,  persevering  and 
exerting  myself,  I  have  prospered." 

"  If  you  should  ever  be  in  want  of  money  to  carry  on 
your  business,  we  should  be  glad  to  accommodate  you  2*. 
our  bank.  We  will  discount  your  paper  for  any  amount 
you  may  need." 

Mr.  Somers  thanked  the  director  for  his  offer ;  a.nd 
remarked,  "  When  I  needed  accommodation,  you  would 
not  oblige  me,  you  remember,  although  I  earnestly  so 
licited  it.  Now,  as  I  do  not  stand  in  need  of  assistance, 
you  offer  it  to  me." 

"  It  was  not  my  fault ;  the  other  directors  did  not 
know  you,  and  they  seldom  discount  for  strangers.  We 
should  be  very  happy  now  to  do  any  thing  for  you." 

"  There  is  young  Mr.  P ,  who  has  just  started  in 

business,  who,  I  know,  is  in  need  of  a  little  help.  Sup 
pose  you  make  him  the  offer." 


THE   YOUNG  MERCHANT.  887 

"  Oh,  we  don't  know  any  thing  about  him.  Ho  may 
be  one  of  the  most  worthy  of  men,  but  he  is  unknown  to 
the  directors  ;  "  and  wishing  Mr.  Somcrs  good-morning, 
Pelby  walked  down  the  street. 

Not  a  month  went  by,  when  passing  along  one  day, 
Mr.  Somers  met  Mr.  Barrow,  another  bank  director,  who 
took  him  by  the  hand  and  smilingly  inquired  for  his 
health. 

"  Well,  sir,  how  do  you  get  along  these  times  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Barrow. 

"  Pretty  well,  sir." 

"  Do  you  need  more  capital  in  your  business  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  ;  my  credit  is  good,  but  I  prefer  to  make  cash 
purchases." 

"If  you  should  be  in  want  of  money  any  time,  we 
would  be  ready  to  discount  your  note  at  the  bank.  "We 
like  to  oblige  when  we  know  it  is  safe." 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  am  in  want  of  accommodation  at 
present." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  find  it  to  your  advantage  to  in 
vest  more  capital  in  your  business.  We  will  discount 
for  you  any  reasonable  amount,  and  should  be  happy  to 
do  so." 

Somers  thanked  him  for  the  offer,  but  as  he  passed 
along  could  not  but  reflect  on  the  change  that  a  few 
years  had  produced.  When  poor  he  had  never  received 
a  smile  or  a  kind  look  from  Barrow,  now  he  was  pleas 
ant  and  sociable.  Once  he  would  not  exert  himself  to 
render  him  assistance ;  now  he  would  do  all  in  his 
power  to  help  him.  Somers  had  become  rich,  and,  as 
is  the  custom  of  mankind,  friends  began  to  flock  around 
him,  but  he  treated  them  all  with  respect  and  kindness. 

One  morning,  Ormand  came  into  his  store  and  pur- 


•388  THE   YOUNG  MERCHANT. 

chased  a  few  articles,  and  freely  entered  into  conversa 
tion  with  Somers.  In  years  past,  this  gentleman  was 
stiff  and .  taciturn,  but  now  he  was  talkative,  and  ap 
peared  to  feel  a  deep  interest  in  the  welfare  of  Somers. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  of  your  prosperity,"  said  he ; 
"  I  always  knew  you  would  do  well  from  the  time  you 
started  in  business,  and  have  often  spoken  in  your  favor. 
I  suppose  you  have  capital  enough  at  present  ?  " 

"  Yes,  as  much  as  I  can  safely  invest." 

"  If  you  should  be  in  need  of  more  at  any  time,  you 
can  readily  be  assisted  by  calling  at  our  bank.  "We  are 
always  ready  to  accommodate." 

"  If  I  should  want  to  be  accommodated  I  will  call,  but 
at  present  I  have  as  much  capital  in  my  business  as  I 
need." 

After  bidding  Somers  good-morning,  the  director  left. 

The  young  merchant  continued  to  prosper,  and  hip 
store  was  the  most  frequent  resort  of  the  bank  directors, 
who,  when  they  ascertained  his  standing,  and  knew 
him  to  be  accumulating  property  did  what  they  could 
to  help  him  along.  They  purchased  of  him  themselves, 
and  often  directed  customers  to  his  store. 

Somers  is  now  one  of  our  most  active  and  wealthy 
citizens.  He  does  an  extensive  business,  and  employs 
a  number  of  hands.  His  losses  have  been  small.  From 
an  humble  beginning,  he  has  risen  to  his  present  stand 
ing,  and  is  an  example  of  persevering  industry  to  all 
young  men.  He  was  always  punctual  in  his  payments, 
industrious  in  his  habits,  and  strictly  attentive  to  his 
business.  Let  his  example  be  imitated  by  all  youth, 
and  like  him  they  will  prosper.  From  a  poor  boy,  he 
has  become  a  wealthy  man,  and  now  exerts  a  good  influ 
ence  on  all  around  him.  He  is  kind-hearted  and  liberal, 


THE   YOUNG  MERCHANT.  389 

and  yearly  distributes  of  his  property  to  assist  those  who 
are  poor  and  needy. 

How  difficult  it  is  for  a  young  man  just  starting  in 
business  to  obtain  assistance  !  If  he  attempts  to  obtain 
help  from  the  bank,  not  once  in  a  dozen  times  is  he  suc 
cessful.  The  directors,  being  men  of  property,  in  many 
cases  do  not  sympathize  with  him,  and  will  not  exert 
themselves  to  render  him  necessary  help.  So  he  strug 
gles  on  for  the  first  few  years  of  his  life,  and  if  he  hap 
pens  to  fail,  as  there  seems  nothing  to  prevent  him,  the 
directors  rejoice  at  their  good  luck  in  not  having  lost  by 
him,  when,  if  they  had  accommodated  him,  he  would 
have  succeeded  and  overcome  all  his  troubles.  If,  in 
spite  of  the  obstacles  thrown  in  his  path,  he  succeeds 
and  accumulates  property,  they  quickly  make  his  ac 
quaintance,  and  are  ready  to  do  all  in  their  power  for 
him.  Such  is  the  way  of  the  world. 
33* 


The  shade  and  the  valley, 

Why  should  they  be  thine, 
Where  birds  never  linger, 

And  suns  never  shine? 
Up  !  forth  to  the  hillside, 

Where  buttercups  bloom, 
And  dandelions  scatter 

Their  gold  and  perfume, 
And  blossoms  are  floating 

Like  butterflies'  wings, 
And  the  sweetest  of  songsters 

Right  merrily  sings. 

Do  you  see  yon  poor,  decrepit  old  lady,  as  she  slowly 
wends  her  way,  the  very  picture  of  poverty  and  misery  ? 
Her  home  is  the  almshouse,  of  which  she  has  been  an  in 
mate  for  more  than  twenty  years.  She  has  but  few  ac 
quaintances  and  fewer  friends.  She  answers  to  the 
name  of"  Old  Suke."  Her  time  is  spent  in  knitting  or 
mending,  and  occasionally  she  has  permission  of  absence 
from  the  house  for  part  of  a  day,  when  she  walks  in  the 
most  secluded  parts  of  the  town,  visits  the  graveyard, 
and  then  returns  to  her  home  and  her  task.  From  the 
appearance  of  Old  Suke,  one  would  suppose  that  she  had 
been  born  in  poverty  and  obscurity ;  that  kind  friends 
and  acquaintances  she  never  knew ;  that  her  life  had 
been  an  unbroken  series  of  disappointments  and  sorrows. 
But  it  was  not  so.  Susan  Elder  was  the  only  child  of 


A   COMMON   ERROR.  391 

a  respectable  merchant ;  her  father,  fifty  years  ago,  was 
considered  one  of  the  wealthiest  men  of  the  town ;  he 
was  respected  and  beloved,  a  man  of  honor,  and  exerted 
a  wide  influence.  Her  mother  was  kind  and  indulgent, 
was  benevolent  to  the  poor,  and  took  pleasure  in  visit 
ing  the  sick  and  the  needy.  Their  only  daughter  was 
a  bright  and  active  girl,  gay,  buoyant,  and  cheerful. 
Her  infant  years  were  passed  in  a  round  of  pleasure ; 
indulgent  parents  bestowed  upon  her  all  that  the  heart 
could  desire,  and  no  wish  of  hers  was  ever  ungratified. 
But  as  Susan  grew  older,  and  youthful  bloom  and  gayety 
were  fast  verging  into  maiden  comeliness  and  decision,  she 
became  the  reverse  of  what  she  was  in  early  life ;  instead 
of  that  open,  pleasant  demeanor,  which  won  so  many  ad 
mirers,  she  betrayed  a  proud  and  haughty  spirit.  Her 
father  was  rich,  and  this  lifted  her  up  so  that  she  looked 
upon  those  who  had  been  her  companions  in  child 
hood,  but  who  were  in  lower  circumstance,  as  far  be 
neath  her.  The  young  men  who  had  attended  school 
with  her,  played  with  her,  and  had  been  intimate  at  her 
father's  house,  were  not  her  chosen  companions  now. 
There  was  one,  Henry  Simpson,  who  had  loved  Susan 
from  her  infancy.  TKey  had  been  associates  through 
life ;  together  they  tripped  the  fields,  plucked  the  flowers, 
and  chased  the  golden  butterfly.  The  parents  of  Henry 
were  poor,  but  worthy  and  industrious  people.  Their 
son  had  been  early  put  to  a  trade,  and  was  a  good- 
hearted,  kind,  and  affectionate  lad ;  his  conduct  secured 
the  approbation  of  all  who  knew  him. 

When  Susan  first  assumed  her  foolish  airs,  tossed  her 
head  in  pride,  and  denounced  the  hard-fisted  mechanic 
and  brown-faced  farmer,  Henry  would  laugh  at  her  folly 
and  occasionally  mimic  her  actions,  thinking  that  by  this 


392  A   COMMON  ERROR. 

course  she  would  be  induced  to  change  her  disposition, 
and  again  become  the  pleasant  friend,  the  kind  compan 
ion,  and  the  cheerful  associate.  But  vain  was  his  hope. 
By  degrees,  her  conduct  became  insufferable,  even  to 
him,  who  loved  her  purely  and  affectionately.  Oppor 
tunities  were  now  sought  by  Susan  to  say  something  to 
irritate  his  feelings  and  pain  his  heart.  "  Before  I  would 
marry  a  mechanic  or  a  farmer,"  she  would  repeat,  "  I 
would  spend  my  days  in  a  convent.  If  ever  I  marry, 
it  shall  be  a  man  of  wealth,  noble  and  high-spirited." 
Though  Henry  loved  her  ardently,  he  did  not  hesitate 
to  tell  her  what  he  thought  would  be  the  consequence 
of  indulging  in  foolish  pride,  and  her  unkind  treatment 
to  him  and  her  friends  —  to  her  parents  even,  who  re 
spected  and  highly  esteemed  their  young  friend,  and 
nothing  would  have  pleased  them  more  than  for  him  to 
become  their  son-in-law.  This  was  Henry's  sole  ambi 
tion,  although  he  had  never  divulged  it ;  it  was  this  that 
encouraged  him  in  his  trade,  and  made  him  happy  dur 
ing  all  his  working  hours  —  the  hope  of  some  future  day 
taking  Susan  to  be  his  own.  From  childhood  Susan 
was  his  companion  by  day  and  his  dream  by  night ;  and 
when  he  saw  the  sad  change  higher,  he  was  miserably 
unhappy.  The  more  he  conversed  with  her,  and  set 
before  her  the  consequences  of  the  course  she  was  pur 
suing,  she  seemed  the  more  indifferent  to  him,  and  more 
inclined  to  avoid  his  presence.  It  was  a  foolish  idea  of 
the  silly  girl,  when  she  neglected  and  despised  such  worth 
as  was  ever  exhibited  in  the  devoted  young  man,  and 
imaged  out  to  herself  a  lover  dressed  in  gold  and  lace, 
with  thousands  at  his  command.  But  the  idea,  even  at 
that  early  period,  was  becoming  fashionable,  that  to  la 
bor  was  not  respectable,  unless  one  had  a  fortune,  and 


A   COMMON  ERROR.  393 

did  not  depend  upon  his  hands  for  a  support.  Such  an 
opinion  has  been  the  ruin  of  many  a  female,  and  is  now 
working  sad  havoc  among  the  would-be  ladies  of  our 
country.  Every  day  they  speak  contemptuously  of  labor, 
and  by  their  example  and  influence  endeavor  to  bring  re 
proach  upon  those  who  work  for  a  support.  It  is  seen 
in  every  fashionable  party,  in  almost  every  merchant's 
house,  and  even  by  the  fireside  of  some  independent  me 
chanics.  Hundreds,  like  the  foolish  Susan,  are  pursuing 
the  same  course,  and  like  her  will  ere  long  reap  the  bit 
ter  fruits  of  their  folly. 

Young  Simpson  was  still  a  visitor  at  the  house  of  Mr. 
Elder,  who,  with  his  wife,  always  welcomed  him.  They 
loved  him  as  a  son,  and  they  could  never  think  of  the 
treatment  of  their  daughter  to  him  without  sorrow  and 
regret ;  but  they  still  hoped  that  she  would  change  in 
her  character  and  disposition  as  time  passed  away.  But 
their  hopes  were  never  realized.  When  Susan  was  about 
twenty  years  of  age,  a  young  officer  appeared  in  the 
neighborhood,  dressed  in  the  extreme  of  fashion,  and 
made  quite  a  parade.  The  moment  Susan  saw  him,  she 
determined  in  her  own  mind  that  he  should  become  her 
husband,  if  it  were  possible.  She  would  take  particular 
pains  to  see  and  be  seen  by  him ;  and  entertaining  two 
or  three  evening  parties,  the  fine  young  gentleman  was 
a  favored  guest.  Such  efforts  on  the  part  of  Susan  were 
not  unavailing ;  they  had  their  desired  effect.  It  was 
not  long  before  the  officer  became  a  constant  visitor  at 
the  house  of  Mr.  Elder,  and  the  foolish  girl  was  daily 
seen  hanging  on  his  arm,  perambulating  the  public 
streets.  Such  airs  as  they  assumed,  dressed  in  the  ex 
treme  of  fashion,  made  many  of  the  staid  inhabitants  of 
the  town  look  on  them  with  wonder  and  astonishment ; 


394  A   COMMON  ERROR. 

and  the  old  ladies,  as  usual,  prophesied  that  no  good 
would  come  of  the  affair.  The  young  officer  had  plenty 
of  money,  was  reputed  to  be  the  son  of  a  very  wealthy 
gentleman,  who  w.ould  probably  at  his  decease  leave  him 
his  whole  estate.  But  to  the  more  sober  and  intelligent 
of  the  people,  he  appeared  to  be  exceedingly  illiterate 
and  coarse  in  his  manners ;  but  Susan  was  so  deeply 
smitten  with  his  dress,  and  what  she  considered  his  gen 
tility,  that  she  thought  of  but  little  else. 

Without  recording  the  preliminaries  of  the  affair,  it 
is  sufficient  to  state  that  the  day  was  appointed  for  the 
marriage  of  Susan  to  the  captain.  Although  Susan's 
parents  had  been  bitterly  opposed  to  the  match,  they 
finally  gave  their  consent,  and  every  thing  seemed  to 
move  on  prosperously  and  harmoniously.  The  day  that 
was  to  complete  the  happiness  of  Susan  arrived,  the  hour 
had  come,  and  the  assembly  was  together,  and  they  were 
married.  Henry  was  present  on  the  occasion ;  but,  as 
he  was  a  man  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  and  had  gen 
erous  feelings,  and  possessed  a  noble  heart,  he  did 
not  faint  away,  nor,  on  the  occasion,  exclaim,  "  My 
early  love  is  lost ;  there  now  is  no  happiness  for  me  !  " 
No ;  but,  like  a  true  philosopher,  who  looks  on  the  sor 
rows  and  the  disappointments  of  life  with  a  correct  eye, 
he  thought  it  was  all  for  the  best,  and  would  not,' if  he 
could,  change  the  scene  before  him.  Unlike  hundreds 
in  a,  similar  case,  he  did  not  treat  with  contempt  the  com 
panion  of  Susan.  Although  the  captain  was  not  a  favor 
ite  with  him,  having  no  partiality  to  the  airs  he  put  on, 
or  to  the  trappings  of  dress,  he  treated  him  with  due 
respect.  So  much,  however,  could  not  be  said  of  the 
captain. 

The  day  of  the  wedding  passed  off  pleasantly,  and  the 


A   COMMON  ERROR.  395 

next,  when  there  was  a  rumor  circulated  through  the 
place  that  Captain  Henley  was  not  in  truth  the  officer 
he  represented  himself  to  be ;  for  the  report  was,  that  a 
poor  pauper  had  arrived  in  town,  who  had  boldly  declared 
that  the  reputed  captain  was  his  own  son.  Curiosity 
was  on  tiptoe,  to  ascertain  the  truth  of  what  the  old  gen 
tleman  said ;  and  not  a  few  who  had  seen  and  despised 
the  conduct  of  Susan,  and  who  had  been  shunned  on  ac 
count  of  their  industrious  habits,  we  have  no  doubt, 
wished  it  might  prove  as  the  old  man  stated.  But  the 
report  was  not  fully  believed,  till  the  pauper  was  seen 
wending  his  way  to  the  dwelling  of  Mr.  Elder.  On  his 
rapping  at  the  door,  who  should  appear  but  Susan  her 
self,  who,  vexed  that  such  a  creature  should  not  enter 
by  the  back  way,  instantly  ordered  him  there,  and  shut 
the  door  in  his  face. 

"  0  Charles,"  said  she  to  her  husband,  "  what  a  dirty, 
miserable  vagabond  I  have  just  driven  from  the  door ! 
What  do  you  suppose  the  ugly  wretch  wants  ?  I  do 
wish  you  would  send  him  from  the  backdoor." 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  captain  ;  but  who  can  tell  his 
surprise  and  chagrin  when  .he  beheld  before  him  his 
poor  old  father,  who  sprang  to  embrace  a  long-lost  son. 
What  could  he  do  ?  where  fly  ?  what  say  ?  His  decep 
tion,  his  fraud,  all  that  he  had  done,  rushed  at  once  into 
his  mind,  and  he  wished  for  annihilation.  He  pushed 
the  old  man  from  him,  exclaiming,  "  Begone ;  I  know 
you  not." 

"  You  are  my  son  Dick.  You  villain,  you  rascal,  to 
treat  your  father  in  this  manner !  You  know  you  stole 
a  large  amount  when  you  ran  away !  "  exclaimed  the  old 
man. 

The  noise  brought  Susan  and  her  parents  to  the  door, 


396  A   COMMON  ERROR. 

and  such  a  scene  as  ensued,  we  have  not  language  to 
describe.  The  coarse  old  father  was  belaboring  his  son 
Dick,  while  the  captain  was  motionless,  not  knowing 
where  to  turn,  or  what  to  do,  and  the  proud  Susan 
screaming  and  fainting,  while  her  father  and  mother 
were  dumb  with  astonishment.  The  neighbors  gath 
ered  round,  and  such  a  scene  of  confusion,  of  mortifica 
tion,  was  seldom  witnessed.  Some  one  throwing  the 
old  man  a  few  coppers,  he  waddled  off,  while  Susan  was 
carried  to  her  room  in  a  state  of  insensibility.  In  the 
confusion  of  the  moment,  the  captain  was  not  thought 
of,  and,  on  inquiry,  it  was  ascertained  that  he  was  last 
seen  walking  rapidly  down  the  street.  He  had  a  large 
amount  of  money  in  his  possession,  which  he  had  bor 
rowed  that  very  day  from  Mr.  Elder'.  Besides  this,  Mr. 
Elder  had  become  responsible  for  him  in  various  places, 
which  he  was  obliged  to  pay.  It  was  ascertianed  that 
the  captain  had  ever  been  an  unprincipled  and  thiev 
ish  character ;  that  he  had  even  stolen  the  dress  which 
so  captivated  the  foolish  Susan,  and  won  her  heart.  His 
parents  were  miserable  beings,  intemperate  and  filthy, 
and  had  long  been  supported  in  the  poorhouse,  and  their 
son  was  brought  up  in  ignorance  and  sin,  and  never 
had  a  quarter's  schooling  in  his  life.  It  was  never  known 
to  a  certainty  whither  he  went,  or  what  finally  became 
of  him,  but  it  was  currently  reported  that  Dick  had  been 
detected  and  was  punished  for  some  highly  criminal  of 
fence,  and  finally  came  to  a  miserable  end  in  the  state's 
prison. 

It  was  many  months  before  the  foolish  Susan  could 
be  induced  to  see  company ;  the  affair  had  so  mortified 
her  pride  and  broken  down  her  spirits  that  she  seemed 
another  being.  It  was  the  town's  talk;  and  no  one 


A   COMMON  ERROR.  397  . 

pitied  the  haughty  girl.  It  was  a  just  punishment  for 
her  folly.  She  had  despised  the  laboring  man  and  the 
mechanic,  to  become  the  wife  of  the  son  of  a  wretched 
pauper,  who  was  a  thief  and  a  scoundrel,  who  had 
wronged  her  father,  and  ruined  herself. 

Henry  Simpson,  as  was  his  custom,  continued  to  call 
on  his  friends,-  the  parents  of  Susan.  It  was  some  time 
after  the  affair  before  the  haughty  girl  would  see  the 
mechanic,  who  once  loved  her  and  had  hoped  to  make 
her  his  bride.  The  circumstance  of  her  folly  was  never 
mentioned  by  Henry  in  her  presence,  and  he  treated  her 
with  the  utmost  kindness.  Every  opportunity  Susan 
could  get,  she  would  express  the  warmest  attachment 
to  her  early  friend.  She  made  him  presents ;  did  little 
favors  unsolicited,  and  really  seemed  to  be  strongly  at 
tached  to  the  youth.  But  it  was  too  late  now  to  hope  for 
any  thing  but  friendship.  Henry  had  secured  the  affec 
tions  of  the  daughter  of  a  neighbor,  and  expected  soon 
to  be  united  to  her.  Still  Susan  hoped  it  would  be  oth 
erwise,  that  Henry  would  yet  recall  his  early  love,  and 
become  her  partner.  She  never  relinquished  this  hope 
entirely  until  the  day  that  Henry  was  married.  Then 
she  yielded  almost  to  despair.  She  felt  that  she  could 
censure  none  but  herself;  that  she  alone  was  the  author 
of  her  misfortunes.  It  was  her  own  folly  that  destroyed 
her.  Once  she  was  surrounded  by  every  thing  desirable 
in  life,  the  cup  of  happiness  was  within  her  reach ;  but 
alas !  alas,  for  human  pride  and  folly,  she  cast  it  away, 
and  wrought  her  own  destruction. 

While  her  parents  lived,  Susan  was  in  comfortable 

eiicumstances,  and  she  lacked  for  no  care  or  attention ; 

'  bnt  when  they  died,  the  little  property  that  was  left  was 

BOOP  lost  by  mismanagement,  and  finally,  without  any 

34 


A   COMMON   ERROR. 

means  of  support,  poor  Susan  was  compelled  to  go  to  the 
almshouse,  where  she  has  been  for  many  a  long  year. 
Few  remember  the  time  of  her  prosperity,  but  everybody 
has  heard  the  tale  of  her  woes  and  the  fall  of  her  pride. 
Old  Susan  has  nearly  reached  the  age  of  fourscore  years, 
and,  according  to  the  course  of  nature,  cannot  long  sur 
vive.  When  she  goes  hence,  who  will  mourn  her  de 
parture  ?  Who  will  shed  a  tear  over  her  grave  ? 

From  the  story  of  Susan  many  a  female  can  learn  an 
instructive  and  useful  lesson.  In  our  cities  and  large 
towns  there  are  hundreds  walking  in  the  same  course, 
and  who,  unless  they  learn  from  the  fate  of  others,  and 
abjure  pride  and  folly  in  all  their  ramifications,  will 
conic  to  an  end  as  miserable.  If  your  parents  are 
wealthy,  this  is  no  excuse  for  you  to  hold  high  yov.r 
heads,  and  cast  contempt  upon  those  who  labor  for  a 
support.  You  have  yet  to  learn  that  riches  may  take 
to  themselves  wings  and  fly  away,  while  industry,  worth, 
and  integrity,  will  rise  and  go  far  beyond  your  standard 
of  refinement  and  respectability.  It  is  often  the  case 
with  those  who  make  the  most  show  and  parade,  that 
when  their  debts  are  paid,  they  have  not  a  sixpence  left 
to  help  themselves  with.  If  you  would  not  learn  by 
dear-bought  experience,  we  pray  you  to  discard  your  no 
tions  of  true  worth  and  merit,  and  understand  that  the 
seat  of  true  virtue  lies  in  the  heart  and  not  in  exterior 
grace,  high-sounding  titles,  or  fashionable  dresses.  De 
spise  not,  neither  look  with  contempt  upon,  an  honest 
and  worthy  man,  no  matter  what  may  be  his  employ 
ment,  or  who  may  be  his  parents.  If  he  is  virtuous, 
industrious,  and  intelligent,  he  will  make  a  good  com 
panion,  a  kind  friend,  or  an  affectionate  husband.  He 
is  really  worth  double  the  man  who  has  nothing  to  bring 


A   COMMON  E?vHOH.  899 

you  but  what  you  see  before  you,  and  thirty  thousand 
dollars  when  his  father  dies.  All  know  that  wealth  is 
desirable  in  such  a  world  as  this ;  but  our  peace  and 
happiness  should  never  be  sacrificed  at  its  shrine.  A 
pleasant  exterior  and  winning  manners  are  not  to  be 
discarded ;  but  when  these  alone  make  a  man,  or  at 
bast  take  the  place  of  the  real  man,  we  should  avoid 
thorn,  and  unite  rather  our  destiny  with  honest  rags. 
There  is  great  danger,  when  a  man  is  brought  up  to 
live  upon  others,  without  ever  earning  a  copper  himself, 
that  he  will  turn  out  a  vagabond  or  a  pauper.  But  if 
property,  has  been  left  him,  and  he  has  squandered  it 
away,  there  is  no  hope  that  he  will  retrieve  it  again  by 
his  industry.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  if  a  young  man  has 
been  early  taught  to  earn  his  own  living,  and  to  depend 
upon  himself,  the  presumption  is  that  he  will  accumulate 
property,  and  become  independent.  Let  females,  then, 
govern  themselves  accordingly,  when  their  hands  are 
solicited  in  marriage.  Where  intelligence  and  moral 
worth  appear  to  be  equal  in  the  rich  and  the  poor  man, 
by  all  means  choose  the  latter.  If  you  have  a  few  thou 
sands  to  bring  to  your  husband,  be  sure  the  latter  will 
retain  it  and  add  to  it,  while  the  former  may  squander 
it  away.  If  you  are  poor,  and  have  nothing  but  mod 
esty  and  culinary  habits  to  present  your  lover  —  which 
indeed  are  more  valuable  than  gold  —  be  sure  to  take 
the  poor  man,  and  you  will  never  see  the  day  that  you 
regret  your  choice. 

In  thus  doing  you  will  find  it  for  your  interest  and 
happiness  ;  make  idleness  and  titles  unfashionable,  while 
you  elevate  all  that  is  worth  elevating  —  all  that  is  en 
nobling  in  human  nature. 


THE  BARKEEPER. 


Intemperance !  the  imp  that  first 

From  the  arch  demon  came ; 
That  every  glorious  thing  has  scathed 

With  his  sharp  tongue  of  flame. 

"  WHEN  will  father  come  home  ?  "  inquired  Sarah 
Johnson  of  her  mother,  just  as  the  old  wooden  clock 
had  told  the  hour  of  ten. 

"  I  cannot  tell,  my  child,"  replied  her  mother.  "  I 
expect  him  every  moment." 

"  But  where  has  he  gone  that  he  should  stay  so  late, 
when  he  told  me  he  would  return  in  less  than  an  hour 
with  my  medicine  ?  " 

"I  am  afraid,  Sarah,  that  he  stopped  into  old  San- 
born's,  and  has  been  persuaded  to  drink ;  but  I  hope 
not." 

"  I  cannot  think  that  father  would  drink  to-night, 
when  he  knows  that  I  am  suffering  for  the  medicine." 

"  I  trust  it  is  not  so ;  but  when  a  man  is  accustomed 
to  drink,  he  forgets  his  obligations  to  his  family  and 
does,  not  realize  the  sorrow  he  brings  upon  them." 

Mrs.  Johnson  was  a  hard-working  woman  ;  her  hus 
band  for  some  years  had  been  in  the  habit  of  using  epir- 
ituous  liquors,  and  for  a  few  months  past  she  noticed 
that  the  habit  grew  stronger  and  stronger,  so  that  not 
unfrequently  he  came  home  intoxicated.  In  the  vil- 


THE  BARKEEPER.  401 

lagc  where  they  resided,  there  was  but  one  individual 
who  would  so  degrade  himself  as  to  retail  rum,  and  that 
was  "  Old  Sanborn,"  as  he  was  called,  a  man  about  sixty 
years  of  age,  who.  had  amassed  a  handsome  property 
from  the  income  of  his  bar.  Although  the  wives  of  the 
intemperate  and  the  friends  of  the  moderate  drinkers 
had  often  laid  before  him  the  evils  of  his  course,  and 
endeavored  to  persuade  him  to  relinquish  his  traffic, 
he  seemed  perfectly  calloused  to  reason  and  humanity. 

"  It  is  in  the  line  of  my  business  to  retail  spirit,"  he 
would  remark,  "  and  so  I  shall  continue  to  do  as  long 
as  I  have  purchasers." 

"  But  you  are  destroying  the  health  of  our  friends, 
and  ruining  their  families,"  the  neighbors  remarked, 
"  and  we  cannot  suffer  this  state  of  things  without  a  word 
to  you  —  without  entreating  you  to  pull  down  your  bar, 
and  retail  spirit  no  longer." 

"  That  I  will  never  do.  It  is  no  one's  business  what 
I  sell.  In  this  way  I  get  a  living  and  am  able  to  sup 
port  my  family." 

All  that  was  said  to  old  Sanborn  had  no  effect  upon 
him ;  he  had  grown  gray  in  the  business,  and  seemed 
determined  to  persist  in  his  unholy  traffic,  regardless  of 
the  entreaties  and  remonstrances  of  his  neighbors. 

Sarah  Johnson,  a  girl  of  about  twelve  years,  had  long 
been  confined  to  the  house  by  sickness,  and  on  the  night 
in  question  was  more  ill  than  usual.  A  physician  had 
prescribed  some  medicine,  and  after  supper  her  father 
had  gone  to  obtain  it.  But  hour  after  hour  went  by, 
and  he  came  not,  although  the  girl  was  suffering  for  the 
articles.  The  clock  struck  eleven,  when  the  little  girl 
said,  as  she  raised  herself  in  bed,  "  I  am  afraid  father 
34* 


402  THE  BARKEEPER. 

lias-met  with  seme  accident.  I  wish  we  had  some  one 
to  send  and  see  what  has  become  of  him." 

"  I  think  he  will  be  here  soon,"  said  the  anxious 
mother.  "  I  am  fearful  he  has  stopped  at  Sanborn's, 
and  that  he  is  passing  his  time  with  those  miserable 
men  who  meet  there  night  after  night  to  drink  and  tell 
foolish  stories." 

Mrs.  Johnson  had  hardly  spoken,  before  the  door 
opened,  and  in  camo  her  husband.  His  looks  told  plainly 
that  the  intoxicating  cup  had  been  no  stranger  to  him. 

"  0  father !  where  have  you  been  all  this  time  ?  "  said 
Sarah ;  "  I  have  waited  and  waited  for  you,  and  thought 
some  accident  must  have  happened  to  you  to  keep  you 
so  long.  Where  have  you  been  ?  " 

"  I  stopped  a  moment  or  two  in  Sanborn's  shop,  that's 
all,"  said  he,  as  ho  staggered  to  a  chair. 

Sarah  burst  into  tears  when  she  saw  the  condition  of 
her  father,  while  her  poor  mother  could  hardly  refrain 
from  weeping ;  nor  could  she  learn  from  her  husband 
any  thing  about  the  modicine  he  had  gone  to  purchase. 
After  considerable  effort,  he  was  safe  in  bed. 

The  next  morning,  Mrs.  Johnson  ascertained  that 
the  money  she  had  'given  her  husband  to  buy  medicine 
for  the  sick  daughter  had  been  expended  for  rum  at 
Sanborn's.  It  was  all  the  money  she  had  in  the  world, 
and  this  she  earned  by  spinning.  "Where  to  obtain  the 
moans  to  purchase  the  articles  for  the  child  she  did  not 
know.  A  little  change  would  be  due  hor  from  a  neigh 
bor  in  a  few  days,  but  she  was  fearful  that'  before  then 
her  daughter  would  experience  severe  illness  in  wait* 
ing  for  the  medicine.  When  Mr.  Johnson  was  expos 
tulated  with  by  his  wife  for  his  conduct,  he  did  not 
manifest  any  sorrow,  neither  did  he  exert  himself  to 


THE  BARKEEPER.  403 

assist  his  sick  cliild.  Rum  had  calloused  his  affections, 
and  home  and  wife  and  child  had  no  attractions  for  him. 
He  merely  went  to  his  house  for  his  meals  and  lodging, 
and  cared  not  for  the  sorrows  and  the  sufferings  he  had 
brought  upon  them.  Once  it  was  not  so ;  he  was  the 
best  of  husbands  and  fathers ;  he  loved  his  home,  and 
exerted  himself  to  promote  the  happiness  and  welfare 
of  his  family.  But  within  a  few  months  how  changed ! 
The  spirit  of  love  and  kindness  had  given  place  to  in 
difference  and  neglect. 

The  next  day,  Sarah  appeared  to  be  more  unwell.  "  I 
am  sorry,"  said  she,  "  father  did  not  buy  the  medicine 
for  me ; "  and,  seeing  her  mother  shedding  tears,  she 
said,  "  I  can  get  along  without  it.  I  hope  I  shall  be 
better  soon,  and  then  I  can  assist  you." 

"  I  trust  you  will,  my  child.  If  you  were  only  well, 
I  might  sometimes  go  out  to  work,  and  could  earn 
enough  to  support  us  well,  even  if  your  father  persisted 
in  his  present  course." 

"And  I  could  do  a  great  deal  myself.  I  know  I  could 
earn  something." 

In  a  day  or  two,  Mrs.  Johnson  was  able  to  purchase 
the  medicine  for  her  child,  but  it  seemed  to  produce  but 
little  effect.  Sarah  was  still  feeble,  could  eat  but  a 
trifle,  and  her  strength  was  exhausted.  Some  days 
she  would  not  rise  from  her  bed,  while  at  other  times 
she  appeared  quite  smart.  She  had  been  complaining 
for  some  months,  and  doubtless  grew  weaker  day  by 
day. 

Mr.  Johnson  persisted  in  his  intemperate  course ;  he 
earned  but  little,  and  this  he  expended  foolishly,  without 
assisting  in  the  least  his  suffering  family. 


404  THE  BARKEEPER. 

One  morning  Mrs.  Johnson  saw  old  Sanborn  passing 
the  house.  She  went  to  the  door  and  invited  him  in. 

"  Sir,"  said  she,  after  he  was  seated,  "  I  have  a?ked 
you  in  to  beg  of  you  one  favor,  that  is,  not  to  let  my  hus 
band  have  any  spirit  from  your  shop." 

"Why,  madam,"  said  the  old  fellow,  "  as  to  that,  I  can't 
refuse  gentlemen  who  call  at  my  bar.  I  keep  shop  to 
accommodate  the  people  of  the  village,  and  am  bound, 
to  let  them  have  what  they  call  for,  providing  they  pay 
me  for  it.  Your  next-door  neighbor  may  call  me  in  and 
request  me  not  to  let  her  husband  have  any  more  coffee 
or  tea,  because  she  don't  like  it." 

"  You  know  the  effects  of  rum,  Mr.  Sanborn,  as  well 
as  I ;  but  you  know  not,  and  I  pray  you  never  may, 
the  sorrow  it  has  brought  upon  me.  Look  at  that 
child,"  pointing  to  her  sick  daughter  in  bed,  "  her  suf 
ferings  have  been  more  than  I  can  describe,  caused  by 
the  intemperance  of  her  father.  She  has  been  deprived 
of  medicine,  and  sometimes  of  the  necessaries  of  life, 
when  the  money  has  gone  into  your  pocket,  which  should  • 
have  been  expended  for  our  family.  Can  you  censure 
me  for  feeling  as  I  do,  and  entreating  you  not  to  fur 
nish  my  husband  with  the  means  of  intoxication  ?  " 

"  0  sir !  "  said  Sarah,  looking  the  old  man  in  the  face, 
"  could  you  realize  how  much  my  poor  mother  suffers, 
I  know  you  would  not  have  a  heart  to  sell  rum  to  my 
father.  I  am  sick,  and  can  say  but  little,  but  I  do  wish 
you  would  not  let  my  father  have  any  more  rum." 

"  I  think  you  are  all  foolish,  talking  as  you  do,  as  if  I 
was  to  blame  because  Mr.  Johnson  drinks.  'Tisn't  my 
fault,  and  no  blame  should  be  attached  to  me." 

"  Yes,  sir,  you  are  to  blame,"  said  the  mother.  "  Sup 
pose  you  did  not  keep  rum  for  sale ;  there  is  no  other 


THE  BAEKEEPEB.  405 

store  in  the  village  where  it  can  be  purchased,  and  con 
sequently,  we  should  have  no  drunkards  in  town." 

"  If  I  should  give  up  my  bar,  it  would  not  be  long 
be-fore  somebody  else  would  open  a  store  and  sell  spirit, 
and  I  should  lose  the  best  part  of  my  custom." 

"•I  do  not  think  any  one  else  in  the  place  would  sell 
it ;  but  if  you  will  refuse  to  let  my  husband  have  spirit, 
you  will  not  bo  the  loser  in  the  end,  I  assure  you." 

"  No,  I  can't  do  it,  and  what  is  more,  I  sha'n't,"  said 
old  Sanborn,  and,  seizing  his  hat  'in  a  pet,  he  loft  the 
house,  muttering  to  himself  till  he  had  reached  the 
street. 

"  What  I  can  do  I  know  not,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson  to 
Sarah ;  "  there  is  no  hope  that  Sanborn  will  give  up 
the  sale  of  spirit,  and  as  long  as  he  keeps  it  I  am  afraid 
your  father  will  drink." 

"  Mother,  we  must  bear  it  as  well  as  we  can,  and  per 
haps  something  may  yet  take  place,  and  we  again  be 
happy." 

A  few  days  after  this  conversation,  Mrs.  Johnson,  on 
looking  from  the  window,  observed  a  team  going  by 
with  a  hogshead  upon  it.  It  struck  her  at  once  that  it 
was  new  rum  for  old  Sanborn.  Nor  did  she  mistake  ; 
it  went  directly  to  his  shop  and  was  rolled  in.  "  It  is 
abominable,"  thought  she.  "  There  is  enough  spirit 
there  to  ruin  the  whole  village,  and  something  must  be 
done  or  we  shall  all  come  to  want." 

"With  such  feelings,  she  called  upon  her  nearest  neigh 
bor  and  told  her  what  she  had  seen. 

"  It  appears  that  Sanborn  is  determined  to  ruin  us 
all,"  said  she,  "  and  it  is  high  time  that  the  traffic  in 
ardent  spirits  in  our  village  should  come  to  an  end.  A 
great  deal  has  been  done  in  other  places,  as  I  under- 


406  THE  BARKEEPER. 

stand,  and  hundreds  of  inebriates  have  been  reclaimed. 
What  can  we  do  ?  " 

"  I  feel  that  something  should  be  done  immediately," 
said  her  neighbor,  "  for  I  have  a  family  of  sons  growing 
up,  and  they  are  just  as  likely  to  be  enticed  into  the 
grog-shop  as  the  children  of  my  neighbors.  I  will  do 
any  thing  I  can  to  prevent  the  sale  of  spirits." 

Mrs.  Johnson  callqd  on  several  neighbors,  and  found 
they  all  entertained  but  one  opinion,  and  this  was,  that 
Sanborn's  shop  was  a  nuisance  to  the  village,  and  that 
he  ought  to  be  prohibited  from  selling  rum.  She  went 
home  encouraged,  and  a  thought  struck  her  at  once. 
"  Mr.  Sanborn  must  give  up  the  sale  of  spirit.  .  If  he 
will  not  do  it  willingly,  I  will  see  what  I  can  do.  He 
has  almost  ruined  my  family." 

It  was  a  cold  day  in  November.  About  four-  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  Mrs.  Johnson  put  on  her  cloak  and 
bonnet  and  walked  down  to  old  Sanborn's.  As  she 
went  in,  she  saw  her  husband  just  put  down,  a  glass, 
the  contents  of  which  he  had  drank,  and  several  other 
men  were  in  the  act  of  drinking.  Calling  Sanborn 
aside,  she  said,  "  I  wish  to  speak  to  my  husband.  "Will 
you  call  your  friends  into  the  next  room,  and  let  me 
speak  a  word  to  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes,"  said  he,  and  turning  to  his  friends,  he 
requested  them  to  step  into  the  adjoining  room'.  They 
all  obeyed  him. 

"  Husband,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson,  "  I  wish  you  would 
go  home  immediately." 

Feeling  ashamed,  he  passed  out  the  door.  No  sooner 
was  the  room  clear,  than  Mrs.  Johnson  turned  every 
rum-faucet  in  the  shop.  Gin,  brandy,  and  new  rum 


THE  BAEKEEPER.  407 

mingled  with  the  dirt  on  the  floor,  while  she  followed 
her  husband  home. 

In  fiftesn  or  twenty  minutes,  Old  Sanborn  entered  the 
shop,  and  to 'his  surprise  found  the  floor  covered  with 
spirit  and  every  cask  empty. 

.  With  an  oath,  he  contemplated  what  had  been  done, 
breathing  out  vengeance  on  the  poor  woman  he  had 
driven  to  perpetrate  such  an  act.  His  friends  did  not 
open  their  mouths,  but  passed  into  the  street.  "  I'm 
glad  of  it !  "  they  each  and  all  exclaimed.  Although  they 
had  patronized  the  old  retailer,  in  their  hearts  they  felt 
that  he  was  wrong.,  and  now  their  indignation  was  kin 
dled  against  him.  "  I  never  felt  so  rejoiced  at  any  thing 
in  my  life,"  one  of  them  remarked  to  the  rest.  "Nor 
I,"  said  another.  "  Nor  I,"  said  a  third.  "  We  should 
have  a  day  set  apart  to  rejoice  over  what  Mrs.  John 
son  has  done,"  said  they  all.  As  they  separated  to  go 
to  their  several  homes,  they  each  concluded  never  to 
patronize  a  rumseller  again. 

When  Mrs.  Johnson  reached  her  home,  she  told  her 
husband  what  she  had  done,  but  he,  instead  of  reprov 
ing  her,  said,  "  It  is  good  enough  for  the  old  rascal.  I 
hope  the  lesson  will  be  a  useful  one,  and  that  he  will 
never  attempt  to  keep  another  bar  and  continue  to  get 
away  money  from  the  poor." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  talk  so,"  said  his  wife ;  "  and 
why  will  you  not  resolve  to  drink  no  more  from  this 
time  ?  It  would  be  a  happy  season  for  me,  for  our  poor 
child,  and  for  yourself." 

"  I  will  drink  no  more." 

"  0  father,  how  happy  we  shall .  be !  "  said  the  child. 
"  We  shall  enjoy  what  we  used  to  when  you  brought 


408  THE  BARKEEPEE.  „ 

things  home  for  us,  and  always  looked  so  pleasant,  and 
spoke  kindly  to  me." 

The  wife  and  the  daughter  wept  for  joy,  while  the 
husband  himself  could  not  restrain  his  tears. 

From  that  day  Mr.  Johnson  was  an  altered  man. 
He  really  felt  that  his  past  conduct  had  been  a  source  of 
great  grief  to  his  family,  and  he  strove  with  all  his 
might  to  live  as  become  those  who  see  the  error  of  their 
ways  and  repent  as  in  dust  and  ashes.  In  a  day  or  two 
he  obtained  work,  and  all  his  earnings  were  carried  into" 
his  family.  His  daughter,  after  several  weeks,  was  re 
stored  to  health.  Peace  and  contentment  reigned  in 
their  dwelling.  The  gloom  that  for  months  had  settled 
over  their  heads  gave  place  to  sunshine  and  warmth. 
They  are  now  contented  and  happy,  and  have  found  that 
enjoyment  which  for  a  long  time  was  denied  them. 

Old  Sanborn  was  exceedingly  wroth  at  the  loss  of  his 
liquor,  swore  vengeance  on  the  head  of  her  he  had  made 
worse  than  a  widow,  and  declared  he  would  again  fill  his 
shop  with  spirit,  and  supply  the  whole  neighborhood.  Im 
mediately  he  sent  for  a  cask  of  new  rum,  and  a  quantity 
of  other  spirits.  After  a  few  days  it  came,  and  in  rolling 
the  hogshead  into  his  shop,  the  plank  broke  and  it  fell ; 
the  head  was  stove  in,  and  all  its  contents  soaked  into  the 
earth.  The  old  fellow  was  so  angry,  that  he  threw  his 
brandy  and  gin  glasses  on  the  ground,  exclaiming,  "  The 
curse  of  God  is  on  me.  I  will  never  sell  another  glass 
of  spirits."  Old  Sanborn  kept  good  his  word ;  he  be 
came  perfectly  temperate,  forsook  all  his  bad  habits, 
and  the  last  we  heard  of  him,  he  had  been  appointed  to 
deliver  a  lecture  on  temperance  on  the  anniversary  of 
the  society  in  his  village. 


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